


Mortal Ground: Book One

by nyxocity



Series: Mortal Ground [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, F/M, Slayer-Watcher Relationship, Slow Romance, Vampire Slayer(s), Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-11
Updated: 2002-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 09:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 75,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13338579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyxocity/pseuds/nyxocity
Summary: Alternate Season 6. Buffy dove into the portal to save the world—now Faith is the only Slayer. Freed from prison, she returns to her duties in Sunnydale under the Council's watchful eye, landing right in the middle of an insidious plot that threatens far more than the fate of the world. Old friendships are rekindled, new alliances are born, and old enemies are revisited as Faith confronts her past and struggles to become worthy of the Slayer mantle. Meanwhile, beneath the earth, something stirs, and another Slayer's grave rests uneasy...





	1. FREE FALL

**Author's Note:**

> This story begins about two weeks after the events of "The Gift". It is meant to span the course of, and will incorporate a few of the character plot lines of, Season 6. However, Faith's presence changes many things and this is a very different story than the original season 6.  
> This was written in 2002 or so and is one of my oldest long works.

Throw off your golden light  
And shed it all around  
Burn as the moon at midnight  
Rise and fall straight down

Mortal ground

Don't turn your back against the wind  
She's psycho crazy, but she draws you in  
Close your eyes and free fall  
Rise and fall straight down

Mortal ground

See how it twists and breaks  
This fate

~Mortal Ground, Rhea's Obsession

_

CHAPTER 1: FREE FALL

Let's begin again, begin the begin  
Let's begin again like Martin Luther Zen  
The mythology begins the begin  
Answer me a question I can't itemize  
I can't think clearly, look to me for reason  
It's not there, I can't even rhyme in the begin

~ Begin the Begin, REM

_

The dream came as it always did: unbidden and without apology or explanation.

She was sailing through the air, arms extended before her, electricity crackling all around her, caressing her, drawing her down into a center of soft white light. The world outside the light seemed to stop, time slowing down to a crawl. Just the sound of her breathing, the pounding of each heartbeat, the rushing roar of wind in her ears; there was only the now, only this moment, only the light. The sensation of freefall faded away as she met the center, struck and suddenly slowed by it, her head held back now instead of level, eyes serenely closed as the brilliance washed over her. It took her without gentleness or forgiveness. It took her soul and laid it bare, naked before its burning gaze. It filled her with cold, sifting fingers, inside her, all around her; seeking. And suddenly there was ravenous hunger, an aching thirst for knowledge, for energy, for the blood within her. And it was within and without- surrounding her, filling her, making love to her, tormenting her, laughing at her in malevolent glee, laughing with her in rapturous joy. It was the cause of her tears, it was the salt in her tears, it ached with empathy for her sadness and it mocked her for the same. It was the pain in her heart, it was the beating of her heart even as it slowed within her chest, and it was- oh, it was everywhere! It was everything! SHE was everything! She was-

"Faith Winters."

It was not so much a question as a command, and not even a very impressive one, given the guard's monotone. But she sprang instantly awake; the metal springs beneath her paper-thin mattress creaking in protest as she rose obediently to answer the call. Her bare feet touched the cold concrete floor with hardly a wince, and she pushed herself up determinedly, resigned to leaving the warmth of her thin, scratchy blankets. She felt the spidery cracks that spiraled out from the drain in the center of her cell pass beneath her feet as she walked, county uniform rustling with a crackling thinness that reminded her of the mattress she had so recently vacated.

It was eerily quiet in the building, and it was easy to imagine some monster crouched in the darkness beyond her cell, great jaws slavering in anticipation as she approached the bars, waiting for a chance to reach through and… She shook her head, banishing the distracting thought, but something, some sixth Slayer sense perhaps, began to tingle insistently at the base of her neck. She hadn't encountered any monsters since she'd been incarcerated, but she was always prepared for the possibility. A Slayer is ever vigilant. Hadn't that been what her Watcher used to tell her? The thought brought a bitter smile to her lips. Monsters were unlikely, but still… it was awfully late for visitors. She glanced to the left and saw her rowmate; a vague lump huddled in blankets, barely visible in the darkness of the cells.

And then she was close enough to see the form standing in the shadows outside her cell door, the silhouette of a young man whose stance was just a bit too militant to be a simple prison guard. He was clothed entirely in black with what looked like an assault rifle strapped across his back, legs together as he stood stiffly, studiously indifferent to her existence, his eyes focused somewhere over her left shoulder on the stone wall behind her. Without speaking, he slid open the door of the cell, the grating of metal on metal echoing throughout the otherwise silent hallways.

She hesitated on the threshold a moment, for the first time realizing how important this was if they were sending armed guards down to pick her up. It had been a long time since they had considered her dangerous enough to be handled with that much security. She had no idea what was going on, but she had a feeling that if she refused to go with him now, he would simply club her over the head and drag her wherever they were going. He had that feeling about him; a rough and tumble kind of guy who'd sooner shoot you than look twice at you.

He seemed more like a soldier than a guard, she thought as she stepped into the hall, watching him with interest as he slid the door shut again behind her. And he wasn't bad looking, either, in a rugged sort of way. She shook her head and swallowed a chuckle, knowing that she'd been in here way too long already if soldier-boys like this were starting to look good to her. Oh sure, there was something to be said about a guy in uniform, but most of them were so down-to-business, so devoid of personality and passion that they moved like automatons even in bed. As if proving her point, he clicked the door into place, straightened and regarded her without expression as he motioned for her to walk in front of him. With a raise of her brows and shrug of her shoulders, she turned and he put one hand on her shoulder to guide her through the darkened hall, moving her toward the center of the building. Even his touch seemed clinical.

She was lost after the first few turns, and after what seemed like an eternity of twists through narrow corridors, they arrived in what appeared to be a more administrative area. Past several official looking doors and beyond four guards who stood stone-faced at their posts, the hall opened up into an area that she recognized from when she'd first been brought here. It was filled with guards and soldiers, but it was a welcome respite.

Relaxing a bit now that she was out of the tight quarters of the hallway, she continued walking past several strong-looking iron doors to the right, wondering if one of these was to be their final destination, as she suspected. A moment later the soldier tapped her on the shoulder, signaling her to halt in front of one of the doors and she waited, filled with curiosity.

He swung open the corrugated iron door to reveal exactly what she'd expected to see: a tiny interrogation cell. A hanging lamp with a single bulb burned dully, encased behind dingy, hard plastic. The dim light illuminated the sparse furnishings within; a small aluminum table and two metal chairs. Much of the room was still shadowed, but she didn't need to be able to see very well to know that all the furnishings were bolted to their respective surfaces in an effort to render them ineffective as weapons.

As she stepped inside, the chill of the room raised goose bumps along the flesh of her upper arms, slipping easily beneath the thin layer of the blue County uniform shirt she wore. The guard stepped in behind her and took position by the door as it slammed shut with a resounding thud. She knew he was there, but she didn't turn, having already sensed someone else in the room. A moment, a heartbeat, Slayer's senses narrowing to a fine point, honing in on the softly breathing presence at the far corner of the room. Dark eyes narrowed fractionally, and she seemed to scent the air, almost like a predator stalking prey. Another moment, and then a man stepped from the shadows of the corner.

He was elderly, but there was nothing frail about him, despite his thinning white hair and beard. Indeed, in the way that only the English seem to have, it heightened his sense of presence, rendering him more striking than he otherwise would have been. That he was English she had no doubt of, and if the regal bearing he possessed were not enough, the tweed suit he wore confirmed it completely.

Quentin Travers, Head of the Watcher's Council. She did not know him personally, but she knew enough of him to recognize him on sight.

Arms folded over her chest, Faith paced the length of the tiny room, the ghost of her trademark smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"So, you finally come to check up on me. Y'know, I was beginning to wonder if you guys had just given up the whole Watching deal all together. What's with all the cloak and dagger, though? You getting bored in your old age or..." she trailed off, glib tone becoming suddenly uncertain on the last few syllables, smile leaving her lips as she took in the severity of the elderly Watcher's expression.

"I'd heard that you were arrogant," he noted, seeming to size her up in the semi-darkness.

"Well that'd give us something in common," she said breezily, affecting a carelessness she didn't really feel.

He frowned, lips thinning into a hard line. "You should know, Faith, that there were those among us who voted to end your tenure as a Slayer," he said meaningfully. Like a good soldier he was right down to business, just as he was reputed to be. She noted that his steel grey eyes never wavered as he spoke, fixed on her countenance as if taking careful inventory of every tiny twitch, every change in her expression, no matter how small.

As if she were a criminal. As if she were dangerous.

She drew her arms tighter against her chest and glanced down self-consciously at the uniform she wore. "They wanted to off me," she summarized quietly, eyes still downcast as she spoke. And then they seemed to almost bounce back up to meet his gaze, a false light shimmering in her dark irises, a deliberate lightness that verged on bitterness. "Not that you guys would ever have the balls to do that with all your tea-parties and tweed and self-righteous talk talk talk. I'm surprised you actually got off your doddering old asses and made your way down here. But here we are." She spread her arms wide as if presenting herself and gave him a crooked, cynical smile. "So did you come all this way to tell me how lucky I am that you let me live or are we actually going to get to a point sometime soon?"

Quentin's lips seemed to thin even further, if that were possible, the compressed line disappearing almost completely.

"While luck might be exactly what saved you, I do not feel inclined to call it such in light of the circumstances that prompted the vote in the first place." He let the words linger between them a moment, not so much a hesitation as a dramatic pause. Even as his words summoned a feeling of foreboding from deep within the primal source of her Slayer instincts, she could not help but admire the man's sense of timing and drama, wondering if it was something that came innately with being English.

She knew what he was going to say. She knew it before he spoke and she didn't want to hear it. Didn't want to know. Didn't want it to be real. Hadn't she felt it? A slight tugging in her soul as if something, some tiny spark had suddenly been extinguished? As if some small but vital part of herself that she had only been aware of in the most distant sense had suddenly ceased to exist, leaving a vacuum where before there had been a comforting presence, more sensed than known? She didn't want to know, didn't want her fear confirmed, and she tried to speak up quickly, glibly, interjecting before he could get the words out- but her own words froze in her throat, turning to ice and sending a bone-chilling cold down through her body, forcing its way through her veins to her heart, nesting there.

"Buffy is dead, Faith."

She felt as if all the breath had been knocked from her body in a single blow, the air leaving her in a dizzying rush.

"B?" she asked weakly, and it was all she could do to force the sound from her mouth as she exhaled shakily.

Quentin Travers watched her closely, trying to determine the depth of her emotional reaction to the news, and for the first time, he saw just a trace of vulnerability. For the first time since he had seen her she seemed diminished somehow, more frail, older and paler; a ghost of herself.

And then she closed herself, cutting off the moment as she turned away, unwilling to let him see how much he had shaken her, how deeply this wound had cut her. She closed her eyes for a moment, memory crashing on memory, Buffy's face suspended in the darkness behind her eyes, and sighed softly.

 _Oh, B._  
  
But now was not the time for sorrow, or recriminations, however well deserved. She could not break down in front of this man. She would not. She bit down hard on her lower lip, drawing blood. The physical pain was almost a relief compared to the emotions that rattled inside her like fragments of shattered glass, cutting her at every turn. Buffy's face disappeared into the shadows of memory once again, and the world swam back into focus.

"How?" The question was sharp, almost brutal, her voice ragged with emotion and edged with anger.

"Sacrifice," came the unexpected reply. A pause, a breath, the rustling of tweed. "She sacrificed herself to save the world."

"Yeah, that sounds like Buffy," she said wryly, nodding as if in dark agreement with herself. She allowed herself the luxury of indulging in emotion just an instant longer, and then she turned to Quentin Travers, her sudden smile glittering like the edge of a dagger; just as sharp and twice as deadly.

"Well, thanks for coming by to share the cheery news, but I've got cell walls just waiting to be stared at calling my name," she said breezily by way of dismissal, eager to be done with this.

Unimpressed, Quentin steepled his fingers together before his face, contemplating her for a moment before resting his chin atop them. "I'm afraid you still don't understand. This is not a social call, Faith. I'm here to get you out and reinstate you on active duty."

Her hands came down on the back of the metal chair, and she took a moment to steady herself, even more shocked now than she had been a moment before, though she would have believed that impossible before he spoke. She fixed her dark brown eyes on him, scrutinizing, mistrustful, as if she suspected he might be toying with her. "What?" she asked, her voice so quiet it sounded almost meek.

"Buffy is dead-"

"You said that," Faith interrupted darkly, almost angrily.

Quentin hardly paused before continuing, "and we can hardly leave the world defenseless against the forces of evil."

"So now I'm all you've got," she concluded grimly, her expression conveying bitter amusement mixed with just a touch of her usual cockiness.

"No," he said briefly, firmly, steel grey eyes seeming to try to pin her to the wall. "As I said, there were those who felt your continued existence posed a threat to the balance of things. Unless you die, there can be no new Slayer. Buffy's first, brief death resulted in Kendra being called, and after Kendra's death, you were called to take her place. Now only your death can call a new Slayer." He paused thoughtfully, and then shrugged. "Certainly we could have arranged for you to be replaced, but there were those among us wise enough to realize that it would take far too long to train a new Slayer as adequately as Buffy was trained, and the threat in Sunnydale is imminent, as always. And," he added, almost as an afterthought, "you're not quite the loose canon you once were."

"Aw. You guys softened up and decided to go all humanitarian on me. You shouldn't have," she retorted with obvious bitterness. After all, there had never been much love lost between her and the Council.

Quentin cracked the faintest of smiles at her remark, and a chill passed through Faith as she wondered for the first time which side of the voting he had been on.

It was late the next night when the guard came for her again.

She had spent the day in a sort of torpor, one part of her numb with shock, the other elated by the opportunity she was being given.

Of course, it wasn't a perfect deal. It would mean she'd be out of here, it would mean being the Slayer again—the one and only Slayer this time—but it would also mean being the Council's puppet. Travers had made very clear where they stood with respect to their expectations of her.

"And what if I'm not interested in being your lap-dog?" she'd asked angrily, feeling like a wounded animal who'd been backed into a corner.

"Well, that would be unfortunate," he'd answered almost casually, stroking his beard as he walked to the table and sat down. "There are so many terrible things that go on in prison, you know. A feisty young girl like you could easily end up on the wrong end of a knife, or suffer an inexplicable accident." He ran his fingertips over the table surface lightly, not quite meeting her eyes. "At least out there you could be doing some good, even if you were, as you put it, our 'lap-dog'."

She'd felt the first of the invisible shackles clamp around her in that instant, and any happiness she might have felt about her possible release died stillborn.

"What good is that to me? I'd be just as imprisoned out there as I am in here." She'd been furious, frustrated, and it was very clear exactly who was in charge.

"And if you stay in here, your future becomes uncertain. Or certain. However you wish to look at it. The world cannot be without a Slayer."

"So you're saying I have no choice." It wasn't a question.

"My dear, we always have a choice," he'd said, rising from the table and straightening his jacket. "I'll be back for yours tomorrow."

And then he had gone, leaving Faith with nothing to do but gnaw endlessly and futilely at her own mind.

She'd made a lot of mistakes in her past, but none so huge as the abuse of the power she'd been given when she was chosen as the Slayer. She'd thought it had given her freedom, a license to do whatever she wanted, whenever she pleased. Finally, the victimized little girl had become a powerful woman, and there was no one in the world that could stop her.

And then she'd met Buffy, and everything had changed. She wasn't the only special one anymore. The town that was supposed to be hers to protect already belonged to Buffy. The friends she might have had, already belonged to Buffy, too. The man she might have loved? Hers, too. Buffy had it all. Everything Faith had ever wanted and more. Worse, Buffy hadn't seen the power as a gift, she'd seen it as a duty to be fulfilled, a responsibility to be kept. She had challenged everything Faith had believed, and in the end, she'd realized that Buffy was right. The power they'd been given wasn't to use for themselves, but to use for others. And she'd hated Buffy for making her see that. She'd hated Buffy for being better than her.

A lot had changed since then. In the past year she'd spent behind bars, she had yearned, even dreamed of having a chance to do things right, and though serving her time in prison was the right thing to do, it had nothing on the service she could be doing for the world as the Slayer. This was the opportunity she had hoped against hope for, and damned if the Council wasn't hell bent on bringing her to her knees, begging for it. Still, there was really no choice. There had been times when she'd almost thought death would be a welcome relief, but she really didn't want to die just yet. There was too much survivor in her to just give up now. That would be the easy way out, and she had vowed not to take the easy way when she'd turned herself in and come here.

She knew deep down that even this "deal" with the Council was better than the nothing she was doing now, much as she hated the idea of being their servant. It went against everything she had worked for all her life. From one prison to another of a different sort… but at least in the other, she had a chance for something more. Sighing, she twisted out from beneath her thin blanket. So many things had happened in the last 24 hours, so many things she couldn't completely process emotionally or mentally just yet.

It didn't matter. She'd known from the instant she'd been offered a second chance what her answer would be.

She rose from her creaking bed for the last time and walked to the door of her cell.

The Cadillac pulled around to the entrance gates of the prison and cut its headlights, running lights still burning like demonic eyes in the darkness. Not bothering to turn off the engine, the driver lifted his arm, checked his watch and tapped the crystal, smiling perfunctorily.

"Right on time."

He'd taken a few private fares from here since he'd been in the business, and though the money was good, he was never sure if it was worth it. He didn't like it here, truth be told. The high fences with their barbed-wire and electric wiring, backed by forbidding stone walls gave him a sense of being smaller than he actually was. It was too easy to imagine himself on the other side of those fences, trapped like a helpless fly in a spider's web; a prisoner against his will.

Oh, he supposed that the people in there had all done something to deserve their place behind those fences and walls, but that didn't matter. It still gave him the creeps.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel restlessly as the long minutes passed, whistled tunelessly and fiddled with the radio buttons, occasionally checking his watch, wondering where the hell his passengers were. They had said 1:00 am, hadn't they?

Grumbling, he leaned across the console and opened the glove compartment, fumbling around inside for the piece of paper that noted his appointed places and times for the evening. He was still digging when he saw a flash of movement outside the car. Thinking it was his passenger, he turned his head to look-

-and saw absolutely nothing.

His hand dropped from the glove compartment and slowly, he sat straight up, hardly daring to breathe as he listened for any sound of movement. He was probably being silly, he tried convincing himself as cold sweat formed on his brow. Probably it was just a wild animal or something. But it was far too quiet out here, and he was so far away from the guard posted at the road entrance that he might as well be in another world. For just a moment, he envied the guard and had a clear vision of the rotund man sitting safely in his brightly lit booth, eating doughnuts and watching "I Love Lucy" reruns on his tiny black and white TV, oblivious to the dangers outside. The driver wished he were there right now, away from the forbidding fences and the darkness of night that suddenly seemed more frightening than it had since he was a child.

Just an animal, he repeated in his head over and over, and after a few minutes passed without further incident, he began to believe it.

He had just written the incident off to paranoia when the car lurched and began to shake violently.

"So, Miss Winters, are we quite clear?"

"Five by five," she answered amiably, gritting her teeth in a close approximation of a smile. The last hour had been a grueling session of question and answer for her, and if Quentin gave her one more instruction or order, she thought she might scream.

Quentin didn't appear convinced. "I take it that means yes?"

"Yes," she answered shortly, leveling him with a look that said she had reached the end of her patience with him.

Quentin seemed to take the hint, and they walked the rest of the distance to the private car in silence. It was weird, she thought, to be walking across this yard in jeans and a tank top, on her way to freedom a good many years before her sentence was up. She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans as she walked, listening to the soldiers walk in perfect unison of step behind her and savored the warmth of the balmy summer night, wondering what kind of deal the Council had cut the State to get her out. She doubted any of it was legal, but if one had enough money, or power, it was more than possible. That was how the world worked after all. She'd learned that very early in life.

As they reached the car, she slowed her step, stopping as Quentin leaned to open the door for her. She tried to push past him and avoid another sermon, but he wedged himself between her and the open doorway, planting his feet firmly, hands clasped behind his back.

"I'll remind you one last time, Faith. It was a near thing, the Council voting to keep you alive," he said surveying her sternly. "One misstep, one failed order, could be all it takes to reverse the decision."

"I get it," she answered cynically, rolling her eyes. "Screw up and I end up like a Kennedy."

"I wouldn't take that so lightly, or be so flippant if I were you. Don't forget who's calling the shots around here."

She bit down on her lower lip, managing to hold her tongue. Barely.

"And if you try to run..." he said, coming nearer to her, meeting her eyes intently with something like dispassionate joy, "we WILL find you."

"I said I get it, okay?" she blurted, her voice rising a notch with irritation and helplessness. She got it, all right. They had her by the proverbial balls and they knew it.

At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to feed the bigoted man his own teeth, but she couldn't even properly express her anger. And, she hated to admit it, but they had every reason to expect her to turn on them. The bottom line was, if she wanted out of here, she was at their mercy and she had to play their game. She hated it. She loathed it. She practically chafed in the invisible shackles they had placed on her, the shackles that she herself had helped create by allowing herself to be caught in such a position... but at that moment; she just didn't have a choice. Not a real one, anyway. "Okay," she said again, more softly this time, attitude receding, eyes and shoulders down.

"You keep that attitude and we'll get along just fine," Quentin added with a note of satisfaction, motioning to the soldiers behind her. "Heckler, Jenks, I want you two in the car with us. It's a long ride from here to Sunnydale," he paused, looking at Faith as he moved out of the way to let Heckler into the car, "we wouldn't want you to get lonely on-"

A thin scream of terror cut the night and Heckler flew out of the backseat of the car, just missing Jenks as he sailed by and landed on his head in an unconscious heap several yards away.

"Oh, I don't think we'll be needing Heckle and Jeckle for company," came a smooth, male voice from inside the car.

As one, the five remaining soldiers drew their rifles and dropped to one knee, barrels trained on the open door to the backseat, awaiting orders.

Belatedly, the shock wearing off, Quentin tried desperately to scramble away from the car, tripping and falling backward in his haste. A hand flashed out from inside the car, almost faster than the human eye could track, caught the Watcher by the belt-buckle and snatched him inside before he could hit the ground.

The soldiers shuffled in confusion, at a loss, left without orders and their leader not only captured, but directly in their line of fire. Faith stood open-mouthed, staring at the dark opening in the car, poised to fight or flee.

The voice from the backseat spoke up again, softer this time. "Come on, Faith. Let's go."

This time, she recognized it.

She dove for the Cadillac, arms stretched out before her, reminding her hauntingly of her dream. Then she was inside and the door slammed shut behind her even as the car squealed away from the prison, kicking up gravel and dirt all over the bewildered soldiers.


	2. WAKE

CHAPTER 2: WAKE

Here it comes again  
Taste of jagged glass and rusty can  
There are just black holes  
where the stars would be watching  
Just black holes  
where the stars should've been

~ Exterminating Angel, The Creatures

-

"Damn."

Willow slammed shut the heavy tome and rubbed at her eyes in irritation, promptly forgetting whatever boring description she'd been reading. Two weeks of reading about boring rituals, sacrifices, dances and prayers. Two weeks of fruitless searching, sleepless nights and endless frustration. Her eyes burned with the strain of many hours' worth of reading and her neck ached from all the time spent hunched over the desk, poring over dusty books with hopeful eyes. Her very heart ached, tired and worn as the rest of her, and she laid her head upon the musty cover, folding her arms around it.

"Late night?" asked a voice from behind her. The voice was low, sweet, and so gentle that it didn't startle her, even though she hadn't sensed anyone behind her. She raised her head from the book, trying to smile as she turned, then stopped as she felt a pair of hands settle on her shoulders, massaging the tense muscles there.

Willow let her head droop back down, forehead touching the tome as she relaxed her neck muscles, and she sighed with all the frustration and despair that had begun to build inside her. Even the touch of her lover did little these days to bring a smile to her lips, and sometimes she wondered if there was anything that could assuage the ache in her heart. "Yeah. Again."

"Well…" Tara's hands seemed to hesitate on Willow's shoulders, stuttering there for a moment before moving on to Willow's neck. It was a slight pause, an almost natural one given that her hands had changed position; it didn't occur to Willow to think of it as any more than that. "You have been doing some pretty heavy reading." She leaned over Willow's shoulder and glanced at the spine of the magical volume. "The Book of Seker?" She didn't recognize the name, but given Willow's interest of late, it nevertheless conjured up images of dark rituals and deals with death, and she couldn't repress a shudder.

Willow reached up and patted her lover's hand reassuringly before letting her own drop back down against the desk in defeat. "Don't worry," she grumbled, managing to sound sulky and sarcastic at the same time. "The only necromantic power this book has is its ability to bore me to death."

"No luck?" Tara asked, her tone sympathetic. She didn't like to see her lover unhappy, but she couldn't help feeling just a touch of relief.

"Big fat zero," Willow said in disgust. "Though if you want to know how to cut out the heart of a phoenix without severing the vein, I can tell you all about it in painstaking detail."

Tara let her hands slide down over Willows shoulders, wrapping her arms around her lover's neck in an intimate embrace. Resting her chin on Willow's shoulder, she tilted her head slightly to the side and tried to catch a glimpse of her lover's expression, smiling gently. "If there's a way, I know you'll find it."

Willow shifted in Tara's embrace; turning to look at her, and Tara could suddenly see all the nameless fears reflected in her lover's anxious eyes. She looked haunted, plagued by ghosts of memory and doubt. "What if I can't?" she asked quietly, giving voice to perhaps her biggest fear of all.

Tara let go, arms sliding from Willow's shoulders and slowly stood. "Well…" she said carefully, her hands twisting nervously together as she gathered the courage to speak her mind. Her heart found the strength, but her eyes lost their nerve, and her gaze slid to the floor as she spoke. "W-what if you can't?" The words didn't ring of challenge-her tone was too uncertain- but there was no mistaking her meaning.

Willow blinked, looking flustered, twisting around further in her chair and staring up at her in surprise. "Tara—what? But- But Buffy," she said, almost gently, urgently, as if in reminder. And then her eyes regained their former frantic look, skittering over the room as if in hopes of escape. "There has to be a way! There has to be! She could be trapped… We can't just leave her!"

Tara bit her lower lip and considered. This wasn't easy for her. Disagreeing with Willow never was. But the memory of Joyce's death and Dawn's attempt to resurrect her was still fresh in Tara's mind. She knew Willow was irrevocably committed to this course of action; she had been since the moment they'd finished burying Buffy two weeks ago. Still, with a spell like this, everything was at risk. The consequences on the caster could be terrible, the results, unspeakable, and the price, far more than the caster could afford. Far more. She had to make one more try. "Willow… we don't really know what happened when Buffy went through the portal. Maybe she—"

Willow pushed herself up from the chair in a sudden movement and half-tuned to face Tara, her posture telegraphing clearly how uncomfortable and irritated she was. Her eyes couldn't quite hold Tara's steadily, and they flickered nervously back and forth as she spoke.

"Maybe she died!" she blurted uncontrollably. "M-maybe she saved the world for the hundredth time and died and n-now she's all alone and lost and cold and—and…" Her voice trailed off and she pressed her hands to her face, shaking her head slowly back and forth as the tears came. "Buffy," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion.

Tara went to her without hesitation, wrapping her arms around her and hugging her tight, stroking her hair, murmuring soothing words against her cheek. "Shhh. It's okay. I know. I miss her, too."

Willow leaned hard against her lover, seeking comfort desperately as she struggled to control herself. She shuddered with a sob, voice breaking as she confessed, "I—I have to, Tara. Don't y-you see? I h-have p-puh-ower. I h-have to h-help her. I- I'm the oh-only one who c-can."

Tara heard the helpless guilt in her lover's voice and knew she was right. Maybe Willow wasn't the only one powerful enough to bring Buffy back, but she was the only one powerful enough who would dare try. She had to try, or she'd never be able to live with herself.

If they could find a spell that worked, it would be a dangerous undertaking indeed. The spell itself would go against nature in every way, the spell ritual would be extremely complicated, the risks to everyone involved would be great, and even if it all went perfectly, the chances of success were not very high. Generally, witches had rules against this sort of thing, and Tara understood all too well why they did. But this was Sunnydale, and there was a Hellmouth, and things were different here. The normal laws of nature did not apply. It went without saying that Sunnydale needed a Slayer, and Buffy was the best there'd ever been. And… Willow was so much more magically powerful than she was, anyway. She had trusted her lover up until now despite her occasional misgivings about the way Willow used her powers, and so far, Willow had never let her down.

Tara smiled and hugged Willow close. "Then I have to help."

Willow sniffled and raised her head, smiling wanly at her lover. She kissed Tara gently and then wiped her teary eyes, eyes that were genuinely deep with gratitude. "Thank you, baby." She laced her fingers through Tara's and squeezed lightly, taking a moment just to look at her.

Tara smiled back shyly and ducked her head, embarrassed by Willow's direct appreciation. Looking away, she tucked a lock of long, blond hair behind one ear. "Um… so, are you ready for bed?

Willow started to nod, then her eyes went wide and she gasped. "Oh no!" Letting go of Tara's hand she turned and ran toward the bedroom door, grabbing her sweater jacket and shrugging into it on the way.

"Willow!"

She stopped halfway out the door and glanced back at Tara, grimacing apologetically. "I forgot! I told the guys I'd meet them for patrol tonight…" She glanced at her watch and looked back at Tara anxiously. "Three hours ago."

Tara hesitated while reaching for her own light sweater. "You don't think they're okay? I mean they probably would have called if they thought they, you know, couldn't do it without us." She was reluctant to go out tonight if they didn't have to, and the guys were probably handling it fine. "Giles and Xander are very capable."

"It's not Giles and Xander," Willow said meaningfully. "Giles and Anya had some inventory to do at the Magic Box tonight."

Tara paused a moment, thinking, then realized what Willow meant. "Oh!"

Without another word she grabbed her sweater and bolted out the door with Willow.

"I'm going to kill you, you bloody wanker!" Spike snarled, biting off every word as he rushed at Xander's unprotected back.

Hearing Spike's approach, Xander turned toward him with a struggle, eyes going wide as Spike's stake hit its intended mark. A second later, the vampire between them exploded into dust.

Coughing and brushing dust from his shirt, Xander took a step back from Spike, glancing about the graveyard for more vamps. "Next time, do you think you could stop yelling about how much you're going to kill him and just do it?"

"I wasn't talking to him, you stupid git," Spike said, enunciating every word with flagging patience.

Xander blinked, his tone only mildly acidic as he replied. "Sorry. Is it my fault all you vamps dress in such a stunning array of black? How am I supposed to tell you apart?"

Spike snorted and rolled his eyes, obviously not amused. "Oh right, cause all vamps have white-blond hair and wear black-leather trench coats year round."

"I said I was sorry," Xander repeated with just a touch of annoyance. "In the middle of all those flying stakes and gnashing teeth, the rule is pretty much 'stab at anything dressed in black'."

"Sorry?" Spike didn't speak the word so much as he laughed it derisively. "Two inches lower and  _I'd_  be the one taking the tour of your lungs right now. Lucky for me, your aim sucks as bad as your—"

"Remind me again why I apologized for almost killing you?" Xander interrupted, furrowing his brow as he feigned confusion.

"Because I've saved your pansy arse more times than you can count?" Spike countered, sneering.

Xander sank down to sit on a headstone in the graveyard, holding his face in his hands, eyes never leaving Spike.

"Right, then." Spike nodded. "Emotional stress."

"Nights like this, I almost miss Cordelia," Xander sighed.

Spike had barely opened his mouth to make a snide reply when dark form barreled into Xander from behind and flipped him over the headstone, landing atop his prone form. The vampire snarled once at Spike as if making its claim on Xander clear, then grabbed Xander by the hair, twisting his head to one side as it bared its fangs, ready to strike.

Spike surveyed the scene, then folded his arms over his chest and cupped one hand over his ear. "What's that, nancy-boy? I can't hear you so well, what with all the thrashing around." The vamp stopped, staring as if Spike's words had stumped its meager intelligence, and Xander took the opportunity to spit dirt from his mouth, managing to make a few recognizable sounds. Spike cupped his hand closer around his ear, leaning forward as he listened to the muffled shouts, then nodded. "Oh! So you want to get back together, then, do you?"

Xander made a few more muffled noises, managing to pull one arm free and flail it about uselessly.

"Oh, sure, you  _say_  it'll be different this time," Spike scoffed. "But I've heard that before."

Xander's arm thrashed more violently, distracting the mesmerized vamp from Spike's scorned lover routine. Seeming to grow bored with their confusing lover's quarrel, and deciding that Spike didn't seem concerned enough to actually do anything, the vampire twisted Xander's head deeper into the dirt and bared its teeth in anticipation.

"You know what they say about a vampire scorned, after all," Spike continued, his voice growing more caustic as he made his point. He shook his head in disgust then, and drew back his arm that still held the stake, lining up the wooden shaft with vampire's left armpit—

"Aufero!" cried a female voice, and the vampire atop Xander was lifted and thrown violently away from him by an unseen force. A split second later, the stake Spike had loosed hit the gravestone and clattered to the ground.

Xander scrambled up from the ground and backpedaled away from the vamp, stopping to glare at Spike after he had gotten a safe distance away.

"What? Don't you love me anymore?" Spike asked him with a smirk. And then he was in motion; intercepting the vampire as it was just getting to its feet beyond the gravestone, knocking it back on the ground with hard punch to its head.

"You all right?" Willow asked breathlessly as she came up beside Xander, her eyes wide with concern.

"Yeah," Xander answered sulkily, spitting dirt. As he turned his head, he saw Tara and gave her a broad, fake smile. "Oh, hi Tara!" he said brightly, then looked back at Willow, fake smile fading to a grimace. "Next time, why don't you just bring the Sunnydale News crew with you so that  _every_ one can witness my public humiliation live?"

Willow gave Xander a commiserating look, and then turned her attention back to Spike's battle with the vamp.

It wasn't much of a fight. A split second after Spike sucker-punched it, the vamp launched itself at Spike like a missile. Spike caught it, locked his arms around the creature and let its momentum carry them backward until they made a full turn of head-over-heel. As Spike tumbled into the top position, he dug his feet into the soft earth to stop their movement, pushing himself forward off the balls of his feet, forearm pinning the younger vampire to the ground with all his weight behind it.

"Stake," Spike demanded through clenched teeth, his unoccupied hand reaching out expectantly.

"Oh, gee, I don't know," came Xander's sarcastic voice. "I've been hurt before."

Willow glanced at him, bemused, and then nodded at the stake, speaking aloud. "Obviam ire," she intoned, and the stake rose obediently from the ground, placing itself into Spike's waiting hand.

The vampire on the ground hissed once in defiance before Spike planted the stake between its ribs, and then it exploded in a shower of ash and dust.

Spike bounced to his feet and brushed his leather trench coat off, looking very pleased with himself.

"Let's see. That makes a grand total of…" Spike looked up thoughtfully, pretending to count his fingers, "…five for me," then leveled Xander with a knowing look as he feigned curiosity, "…and how many for you?"

"Yeah, the vamps have been pretty active lately, huh?" Willow asked anxiously, cutting in before another argument could begin.

Perhaps grateful for the intervention, Xander sighed and leaned back against a nearby crypt. "Yeah… active like my parent's basement when I used to turn the light on in the middle of the night. I wonder if they have 'Vamp Motels'?"

"Y-you mean like lodgings, registers, stuff like that?" Tara asked in confusion.

"No." Xander gave her an odd look. "I mean like Muhammad Ali. You know." He dropped into a fighting stance and held his hands in front of his face like a boxer. "Kills vamps dead!" he said, doing a fair impression of the boxer's baritone voice.

Spike lit a match, touching it to the cigarette between his lips and squinted curiously at each of them over the resulting cloud of smoke. "It's the rumors," he said, his voice somehow ominous, yet curious at the same time, as if he were surprised they didn't know. "About the… Slayer." He stumbled over the word with only a moment of hesitation, felt his heart begin to swell painfully in his chest, then took a deep drag from his cigarette and plowed on. "Creatures're starting to say something's happened to her."

Willow, Xander and Tara shifted nervously, their eyes riveted on Spike with a thousand silent questions.

"Won't be long before they figure it out," he finished simply, exhaling with a long sigh.

Xander shifted his weight uncomfortably, turning to look at Willow. "Much as it appalls me, Will, I find myself in agreement with vampirus compactus, here." He nodded toward Spike, but his eyes never left Willow's. "How long before Plan B goes online?"

Spike also looked at her, reaching up to pluck the cigarette from his mouth with an index and middle finger, dark brows rising curiously.

"Uh… P-plan B?" she asked uncertainly, shuffling her feet and glancing back and forth between them guiltily, her mind racing. They couldn't know about the spell yet… could they? She hadn't told anyone except Tara.

"Okay, so there was no Plan A, but indulge my little movie fantasies could you?" Xander asked.

"Uh… Oh! Plan B!" Willow said with more certainty, as if she had suddenly just remembered. In truth, she had. She'd been so preoccupied with trying to find a spell to bring Buffy back that she'd forgotten completely about their other plan. "Right." She nodded with an uncomfortable smile. "Plan B, coming right along."

"So this week sometime?" Xander asked, not seeming to notice her discomfort.

"Right. This week. You betcha!" she said with a faint nervous laugh. "In fact," she glanced at her watch, "look! Patrol's over." She nodded. "So we should go. Work on that. Um… Plan B, I mean." She grabbed Tara's hand. "Now."

Willow took off down the street with Tara in tow, leaving Xander and Spike to stare after them in wonder.

"There goes a girl who should really get out more," Xander said with a shake of his head.

The vampire stood silently among the trees at the northern end of the graveyard until he was certain that the human man and the blond vampire had gone. He had no idea why the blond vampire had turned to killing its own kind, much less why such a creature seemed to be working with a human male and two females, or why any of them knew anything about the Slayer's recent disappearance… but he suspected his mistress would be very interested to find out. Very interested, indeed.

With a last cautious glance, he departed the thin cover of the trees and hurried toward an old mausoleum, slipped inside, and was gone.

"Aren't you coming to bed?" Tara asked as she slid between the covers of their bed, watching Willow tug on a pair of sweats instead of pajamas.

"I know it's late." Willow sighed and tugged the laces of the sweats snug around her slim waist. "But I've still got 'Plan B' to work on. The sooner I can get it up and running the more time we'll all have to look for a spell."

"All?" Tara asked, her tone as innocent as she could possibly make it. She had noticed earlier that Willow hadn't been in any hurry to share the idea of finding a spell to bring back Buffy.

"You and me, Xander and Anya."

"But… What about Giles?" Tara asked, stunned. Leaving Dawn out she understood, but she couldn't think of any reason not to tell Giles. Especially since he knew more about spell casting than any of them. He might not have Willow's raw talent, but he had been studying the arts for more years than either of them had been alive.

"Oh… well… you know how uptight he gets, baby," Willow said, her tone of voice pitched to placate. She came over and perched on the edge of the bed, reaching out to touch her lover's hand reassuringly. "And… he'd probably try to stop us," she added, recalcitrant.

Tara lowered her eyes but remained silent. She knew Willow was right, and she had already agreed to help her lover find a spell… still, she couldn't help but wonder if Giles' reaction was the one that would serve them best. She considered saying as much, then stopped, chiding herself. She  _had_  agreed to help, and she didn't want to upset Willow again; no good could come of pressing the subject.

As much to change the subject as from real curiosity, she asked, "And Spike?"

Willow hesitated, making a face Tara couldn't quite put a name to. "He's—He's just not one of us, you know?"

"Neither was I, once," Tara said softly.

"Oh—I know, baby." Willow squeezed Tara's hand and smiled nervously. "But it's just—he's—well—you know… the whole crush on Buffy thing might cause trouble," she faltered. "Oh! plus! The chip… in his head… I mean sure, he's all good and fluffy now, but what if he loses that chip, right?"

Tara nodded thoughtfully. It did make a certain kind of sense. "You're right." She twined her arms around Willow's neck and pulled herself up close, resting her forehead against her lover's and gazing at her with a mischievous smile. "Plus… you're the boss."

"I am, aren't I?" Willow asked with a crooked smile of her own, eyes twinkling suggestively.

Willow leaned in to kiss her, and all of Tara's doubts fled before the sudden pounding of her heart.


	3. LAMENTATION PT. 1

CHAPTER 3: LAMENTATION PT. 1

Tell me who doesn't love  
What can never come back  
You can never forget how it used to feel  
The illusion is deep  
It's as deep as the night  
I can tell by your tears you remember it all

I am paralyzed by the Blood of Christ  
Though it clouds my eyes  
I can never stop  
never stop

~The Blood, The Cure

-

"Now, now, let's not be hasty," Quentin Travers rasped hoarsely.

Dimly aware of the smell of oiled leather all around her, Faith raised her head from the seat of the Cadillac to see Quentin Travers pinned against the opposite door, a huge hand wrapped around his throat. It was amazing the man could get the words out at all, she thought, much less sound so reasonable about the situation.

"You okay?" The owner of the vise-grip clamped around Quentin's throat looked at her intently, familiar dark eyes filled with concern, seemingly oblivious to the man he held pinned like a bug.

She nodded, mind still trying to catch up with everything that had happened, then smiled. "Angel! What're you—How did you-?" She pushed herself up from the seat and sat up, looking around with a dawning grin. "That was wicked cool!"

Angel's mouth curved in a slight smirk and he turned to look at Quentin. "Did you hear that? I'm 'wicked cool'."

Seemingly at a loss for reply, Quentin simply nodded.

"So, what's the plan?" Faith asked earnestly, settling in as if she were eager to get down to business.

"The plan," Angel said, still looking at Quentin, "is that Quentin and I have a little chat about 'business', and then I escort you to beautiful Sunnydale, where we'll spend several weeks experiencing Hellmouth fun."

"You're coming with me?" Faith asked, so surprised and excited that she actually had to restrain herself.

"Business first." He let go of Quentin's throat, pinning the man with his eyes instead of his hand. "Let's not waste time or mince words, Quentin. I knew you guys would probably try a stunt like this with Buffy out of the way. All I had to do was put my ear to the ground and wait for you to make your move. And now, here you are, with the same old little Hitler routine." He stopped, clucked his tongue as if in sorrow and shook his head. "Guys like you never learn, do you? See, the problem with being a bully is that there's always another bully out there who's bigger and stronger than you, just dying to put you in your place if you step out of line," he said meaningfully, smiling face devoid of humor.

Quentin pulled together the last vestiges of his dignity, chin rising fractionally. "Are you threatening me, Angelus?"

"Not at all, old pal." He faked a laugh and clapped the Englishman on his shoulder, a bit too roughly. "I just thought I'd share some friendly advice. I mean, after all, this Slayer has friends, just like the last one. If you make her into your little puppet, someone's bound to come along and cut the strings, and well…" He made a show of shrugging, finishing with polite sarcasm as he leaned over conspiratorially, whispering, " …it probably wouldn't go well for you."

Quentin regarded Angel in glowering silence and Faith watched, recognizing the feeling he was experiencing as the same one she had felt mere minutes ago. He was making a grand show of it, but she could tell the Watcher knew he was beaten.

"You know Faith needs our guidance," he said more quietly.

"Guidance yes. Cattle prod, no. Be careful how tight you pull the strings, because someday," he paused, glancing at Faith then back to Quentin, "she'll be a real girl." Angel let the words hover between them, making sure they sank in, and at last the Watcher lowered his eyes. Nodding in satisfaction, Angel sat forward and tapped on the tinted window that separated the front seat from the back seat. Almost instantly, the car began to slow, and Angel sat back, exclaiming with false brightness, "Oh, look Quentin! It's your stop."

The Watcher blinked in surprise, then glanced around anxiously, trying without success to see through the tinted windows of the car. "We're still miles from any kind of city." He said it matter-of-factly, as if Angel might not be aware of where they were.

"Oh, I'm sure your men will have no trouble finding you. Eventually." Angel reached over Quentin as the car stopped, popping the release on the door.

Quentin grabbed the edge of the doorjamb to keep from falling out of the car, and then, with more dignity than Faith would have believed possible, pulled himself up and stood. Straightening his tweed jacket, he fixed Angel with an imperious look. "The Council will hear of this. If anything happens to Faith—"

"Oh, come on now Quentin, there's no need for idle threats between old friends, is there?" Angel asked with a friendliness that bordered on threatening. "If the Council were as powerful as you like to pretend, it wouldn't need the Slayer. I think it's safe to say I have Faith's safety more in mind than the Council ever will. I'll see her safely to Sunnydale and her new Watcher." He paused, reaching for the door handle. "There  _will_  be one waiting?"

"Yes," Quentin hedged, seeming reluctant to give any further information. Angel merely waited, staring at him, and at last he sighed. "Ms. Beatrice Hall, 325 Oak Street."

Angel nodded once, then started to close the door. He paused halfway, leaning his head out a bit further as if in concern. "Oh, and Quentin, if I were you, I wouldn't make too much noise while I waited." He glanced around furtively, lowering his voice. "I hear the Sasquatch are partial to this territory." He gave the Watcher a last smirk and slammed the door shut.

Quentin watched the car squeal away into the darkness until it was gone. He could hear nothing but the chirping and buzzing of insects in the surrounding trees, and he could see no more than a few feet into the trees by the roadside. He thought about moving to the edge of the paved road, but stood in its center, as far from the trees on either side as possible, hoping the team of soldiers would find him soon.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Inside the car, the window separating the front and backseat buzzed, sliding downward, and Faith was surprised to hear a streetwise voice speak from the front seat.

"We all good here, boss?"

"Yeah, Gunn. Straight on until Sunnydale from here." Then, almost as an afterthought, "Faith, this is Charles Gunn. Gunn, Faith."

Faith seemed startled by the introduction. "That's Gunn? I mean, you told me he was cute, but you never said how cute!" She could only see the upper part of Gunn's face in the rearview, but it was enough.

Thick, dark brows drew together in comical confusion as Faith watched the mirror. "He said I was cute?" She wasn't sure, but she thought he sounded surprised, flattered and offended all at once.

"Thanks Gunn. That'll be it for now," Angel cut in quickly.

With a last, odd look at Angel, the window obediently buzzed upward and slid into place, Gunn's face in the rearview disappearing.

"Cute?" Angel asked, with a look at Faith.

She shrugged and gave him an impudent grin. "That's what you said."

Angel smirked, nodded, and seemed to dismiss the topic. "I thought he would be a good… neutral… choice for this."

"You mean someone who didn't hate me with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns?" Her tone was not without rancor, but Angel could sense that it was directed more at herself than those she spoke of.

He looked uncomfortable and almost seemed to squirm in his seat as he answered. "Well… yeah."

She hesitated before asking the next question, glancing down at the floor, not sure she wanted to know the answer. "Does that mean Wesley and Cordelia still haven't forgiven me?"

She didn't look up at him, but she could hear the strain in his voice as he replied, and she could tell he didn't really want to answer her. "They… they haven't forgotten."

She nodded. It was about as straight of an answer as she was going to get without pulling teeth, and she didn't really have the strength to deal with the pain more specific answers might bring anyway. "I doubt that anyone in Sunnydale has 'forgotten' either," she said, folding her arms over her chest and turning her head to gaze out the window.

Angel looked at her for a long moment, considering her, considering the circumstance, considering the choice of his next words. He'd never known exactly how to deal with Faith. She came across so blunt and straight and tough… and yet, most of it was an act to hide how very soft and vulnerable and secretive she really was. He understood the pain she carried; the blood of innocents and the not so innocent on her hands and in her heart, but she could be so volatile, so unpredictable that he was never quite sure what would reach her at any given moment.

"It's what you have to do," he said quietly. "You'll never know peace until you make amends with your past, Faith. Sunnydale is the perfect place to do that,  _and_  fulfill your role as the Slayer at the same time."

She turned, looking at him almost helplessly, but he could see the anger smoldering beneath those dark brown eyes, the anger that so threatened to smash all her dreams. "I'm going to have to see them." She hesitated, swallowing hard as if the words were difficult. "They hate me," she said plaintively.

He nodded, considering that in silence. Then, "They hated me, too, for a while."

"It's not the same," she cut in, her voice taking on a harder edge as she turned away toward the window once again.

"No," he said slowly. "But you at least you have a chance to show them that you've changed. I know it's hard Faith, but you can do this. I've always known that you could."

She slowly shook her head, turning to look at him again. "What if they never forgive me?"

"Then you keep trying. Faith…" he paused, and now his words came with difficultly, too. "All that really matters is that you forgive yourself. If you need them to forgive you to achieve that, then you'd better work for it really hard."

"Is that what you do?" she asked quietly, looking at him intently.

He shook his head as if shrugging it off. "It doesn't matter what I do."

She laughed cynically, and tossed her head, dark hair flying back away from her face. "That's just great. A couple hundred years to figure out all the answers and this is what you give me?" her voice was hard-edged, bitter.

"Nobody has all the answers, Faith. All we can do is the best we can do."

She thought for a long moment, gazing out the window at the trees rushing by. "How—how do you deal with it?"

"One day at a time," he said with something like a chuckle. "If it hadn't been for you, I'd be in Sri Lanka right now, soaking in the spiritualism."

"Sri Lanka?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. "What's there?"

"Monks."

She stared at him uncertainly. "Oh."

"I… I thought maybe a spiritual retreat might help. You know, set me right." He shrugged, uncomfortable again.

"You think there's hope for that?" her tone was flippant, and she smiled, but she was genuinely curious.

"I think there's always hope," he said with a small smile of his own. "Even when things seem at their worst."

She regarded him in silent wonder. "You've changed."

"I sure hope so," he said so quietly she almost didn't hear him.

He sounded so uncertain, so lost and yet so hopeful. She knew exactly how he felt. And though they talked of many other things, those were the words that haunted her the rest of the way to Sunnydale.

* * * * * * * * * *

Xander sighed and rubbed his eyes, blinking at the bright red numbers that told him it was 3:07am. Giving sleep up as a worthless pursuit for the moment, he slipped his arm from beneath Anya and rose from the bed. Shrugging into his robe, he stopped and stared down at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips as watched her snuffle, gently shifting position in the wake of his absence, and he wished he could sleep so soundly.

Sleep had pretty much become a non-issue for him of late. He'd finally figured out that if he just accepted that it wasn't going to happen, it wasn't an issue. He crossed the open area of their apartment to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, bright yellow light nearly blinding him. Averting his eyes, he reached for the milk, closed the door then fumbled for a glass in the half-light provided by the streetlights outside. It was becoming a nightly ritual, this glass of milk, and he was beginning to think that maybe he should try it earlier in the night, because sometimes it seemed to help.

But those thoughts only came late in the night when he was silly with sleeplessness, and the deeper, more cynical part of him knew there was nothing milk could do to drive away the demons. Or, more accurately, the ghosts.

He sat at the kitchen table, sipping his milk and staring out the window into the darkness. He didn't see the cars or the streets below; all he could see was a face… a beautiful, sad face that he hadn't been able to save.

In his mind's eye, he watched her swan dive from the tower over and over again, like a record skipping endlessly on the same, discordant note.

* * * * * * * * * *

He was almost there! He could hear the pounding of his feet on the metal ramp, could feel the metal rungs sliding in the grip of his sweaty hands as he climbed the ladder to the top. He could see the top of the platform now, could see just the crown of the young girl's hair and the back of the man's head he thought he had already killed. And well, there was an obstacle, but his heart leaped for joy; he was there in time! He was going to make it!

"Well. What do you know? It's just about that time," the man said.

The girl cried out his name, but he ignored her. He didn't have a moment to spare her just now. The man spun, turning on him.

"Doesn't a fella stay dead when you kill him?" he heard himself ask, as if from far away.

There was more talking; mostly bravado, and then he lunged at the man, realizing the mistake he had made even as he felt the man's arm slide around his neck, spinning him around. He knew what was coming next—the knife in his back, the plunge from the platform—all of this had happened before.

But this time he went with the momentum, letting the spin carry him toward the edge of the platform. They balanced on it precariously, the man struggling to bring his knife to bear, and then he leaned forward over the edge—vertigo rising up as if to grab him and swallow him whole—and grabbed the man's arm tight, flipping him over his shoulders, sending his opponent into the air, watching him sail down several stories to hit the ground with a gruesome crunch. He teetered on the brink of falling himself, then with an effort threw himself backward, landing on his backside with a grunt.

The girl called his name again, with joy and relief rather than concern this time, and he heaved himself up from the platform to go free her. He heard a noise and turned, ready to battle again if he had to, then relaxed.

"Oh," the woman said, covering her face with her hands, tears of happiness and relief streaming down her beautiful face. "She's okay. You're okay." She rushed to the girl and untied her, both of them collapsing into a heap, crying and hugging. He stood back, watching them, a smile on his own face, knowing he had done it. He had saved them. Saved her.

She finally stood and hugged him tight, kissing him on the cheek. "I would have died if it weren't for you. Thank you."

He tried to hug her back, to tell her that he didn't need thanks; just the fact that she was alive was thanks enough for him—but she was gone. Like smoke, she evaporated from his embrace.

Spike woke with a sudden start, sweating and cold in the darkness. Like the woman in his dream, he covered his face with his hands, unsurprised to find the wetness of tears there. Every night he saved her, and every night he woke to find that she had died after all.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Giles sat hunched over inventory sheets in the dim light of the Magic Box. He didn't even pretend at sleep anymore, the nightmares were all too real, all too fresh. He supposed he looked rather haggard these days, but he really didn't care. After all, there was no one around to impress, no one around even to hound him anymore now that Buffy was gone; they were all too wrapped up in their own grieving.

He had always known it was bound to happen. He above all knew that the life of a Slayer was fraught with peril and mortal danger, and most did not live to see their twentieth year. Buffy had been an exception by living just beyond that, but then, Buffy had been an exception in many ways, and he had begun to believe that she might just survive forever.

Wishful thinking, he knew now. He had wanted her live, to succeed, to flourish and grow and have all that she wanted from life. He was bitter that all of that had been stripped from her time and time again, that in the end she had been forced to give up the only thing that was truly hers; her life itself. It wasn't fair, this calling. Not fair to Slayer or Watcher. And yet, it was necessary. He knew that, even if he couldn't completely accept it.

It troubled him to think of all that had been taken from Buffy, from him, from all of them… and yet, what troubled him most was the nagging thought that perhaps Buffy had been the luckiest of them all, because at least now she knew peace. That was more than any of them would have again for a very long time.

He held his head in his hands and waited for the sorrow to become bearable again.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Willow slept peacefully, her sleep only occasionally broken by a passing bad dream, like a shark's fin through murky water. She alone slept secure in the knowledge that Buffy would return.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Far beneath the streets of the city, a lone vampire returned to its mistress and made its report.

* * * * * * * * * * *

And so it was when Faith returned to Sunnydale.


	4. LAMENTATION PT. 2

CHAPTER 4: LAMENTATION PT. 2

How it feels to be dry  
Walking bare in the sun  
Every mirage I see is a mirage of you  
As I cool in the twilight  
Taste the salt on my skin  
I recall all the tears  
All the broken words

I am paralyzed by the Blood of Christ  
Though it clouds my eyes  
I can never stop  
never stop

~The Blood, The Cure

_

 

Beatrice Hall was petite woman, an inch or two shorter than Faith and at least a size smaller. Still, even for her smaller stature, she was as impressive a woman as Quentin Travers was a man. There was a sort of quiet power in the set of her shoulders, a self-assurance that was captured perfectly in the crisp business jacket and skirt she wore. Her dark hair was swept back from her head in a carefully pinned bun, giving her otherwise lovely features a severe cast. She wore a pair of round-rimmed glasses that seemed to accentuate the intelligence contained in the bright blue eyes behind. Her gaze was sharp and piercing as she surveyed her new charge, and Faith began to wonder if maybe she'd been better off in Quentin Travers' care.

Beatrice flipped perfunctorily through the paper on her clipboard, and then raised her eyes to Angel, her gaze hardening even more. "You're not supposed to be here," the woman said in crisp, British tones that crackled of fire and ice.

"Well, so much for the script," he said sarcastically, giving her notes a contemptuous glance.

"Hmph," she said, unimpressed, then flipped to another page and scribbled a note, her expression inscrutable.

Faith shifted her weight from one foot to another, glancing anxiously back and forth between the two of them. She had no idea what this woman expected of her, and she was torn between thinking Angel's attitude was probably good for the woman and thinking that it was only going to get her into deep trouble with her new Watcher.

"So," Beatrice said, returning her attention to Faith at last. "You're Faith Winters." She gave Faith a look of cool appraisal, eyes traveling up and down the length of her body.

"Last I checked," Faith answered easily, with a shrug and a tilt of her head. She met the woman's icy gaze evenly, determined not to appear intimidated. Maybe she was in their debt—for now—but that didn't mean she had to be completely servile.

"Interesting last name, Winters," the woman remarked, her tone slyly casual, almost questioning.

Faith raised her chin, dark eyes glittering defiantly. "It's legal. Mayor Wilkins saw to that when I was… in his care."

"His… care." Beatrice said, her tone flat, blue eyes icily questioning.

"Yeah. He took care of me," Faith said, her voice tight as she tried to keep a grip on her anger. "Why doesn't anyone ever get that?"

"Well, his turning into a giant snake and trying to eat an entire town tends to make one question his nurturing abilities," Beatrice replied coolly, her voice laced with just the faintest tinge of sarcasm.

"He took care of me," Faith said again with a hard look at the woman, her tone making clear that she wanted no further argument on the subject.

"Yes," Beatrice said shortly, her disbelief obvious. She made another entry in her notes and then looked to Faith again. "Why Winters?"

Faith folded her arms over her chest and set her jaw, not wanting to answer the question, especially since she guessed that the woman already knew. "I… thought it was poetic justice," she answered evasively.

"Poetic justice?" the woman echoed, too politely, thin brows rising questioningly.

Damn. Five minutes with this woman and she was already driving Faith mad. How was she ever going to make it through the next several months? "Yes," Faith said, her slipping patience beginning to show. "You know: Summers, Winters? Bright and sunny, cold and dead?" She spoke in a condescending tone, as if the woman should have known without her having to explain.

"I see." Beatrice nodded and made another note. "So you took the name opposite your nemesis, Buffy Summers?"

"Yes," Faith said again through clenched teeth.

"And you say Mayor Wilkins supported this obviously unhealthy choice?"

"Do you British people ever get tired of hearing yourselves talk?" Angel broke in, his patience beginning to wear thin as well.

"Hmm," Beatrice said and cut him a look, making another note on her clipboard.

"Do you even know who I am?" Angel asked, agitated, trying to lean forward to see what she was writing.

She pulled the clipboard tight against her chest and drew herself up, eyeing him calmly if mistrustfully. "Of course I know you, Angelus. All of the Watchers know you."

"Hmph." Angel said, and nodded, appearing to glean some great wisdom from her statement. "Should I make a note now?" he asked caustically.

Beatrice eyed him silently a moment more, then ripped a blank sheet from her clipboard, offering it to him with just the hint of a steely smile.

He hesitated, seeming surprised by her reaction, and then snatched the paper from her hand, putting put his hand to his chin, as if in deep thought. "Let's see, since you obviously missed the first memo, I'll have to write you another." He stopped, eyes locking on hers intently, his tone almost challenging. "It's just Angel now."

Her brows raised again with that same too polite, slightly mocking expression, and she nodded primly. "Well,  _Angel_ , while you draw upon your… most impressive intellect to compose your memo, I think Faith and I will settle ourselves into our beds for the night." She nodded curtly to him and spun on her heel. She began walking toward the house with a brisk pace, then stopped, pausing to look back over her shoulder.

"Oh. And you're  _not_  invited." She flashed him a cool smile and then resumed her course toward the house.

Faith hung back a moment, looking at Angel. "Well, you sure showed her."

Angel was staring after Beatrice with a look of fascination. "I'm not even sure she's human."

Faith started, looking alarmed. "Really?"

"Did you  _see_  that?" he sputtered, gesturing wildly in annoyance after Beatrice, and the blank sheet of paper still clutched in his hand flapped comically with the motion. "I always said demons have  _nothing_  on the British!"

She laughed out loud and nodded in agreement. "Yeah, she's a real—"

"Ms. Winters!" Beatrice called stridently from the porch, her voice like an arrow through the night, severing the conversation between Faith and Angel with sharp finality. It wasn't a request; it was an order.

Faith bristled at the tone of command. Like a reflex, the old feelings of resentment and rebellion flared to life as if they had been lurking, hiding, waiting to fill her with the familiar fire that always raged out of control and burned her life to the ground. With an effort, she composed herself, then jammed her hands in the pockets of her jeans, gave Angel a last sullen glance, and sauntered toward the porch with pronounced attitude.

"I'll be around," he said quietly, and when she looked back, he was gone.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The entire house was small and sparsely furnished, old-fashioned in structure and décor, and Faith's room was the most simply furnished room of all. A single antique looking armoire stood in the corner near the window, kept company by a matching wood framed single-bed, slightly narrower than modern convention. The only other piece of furniture was an antique writing desk just to the left of the door. Like everything else in the room, its surface was old and worn, finish rubbed off by many years of writing and studying, and it was devoid of all implements and personality. No curtains adorned the windows, not a single picture graced the walls, and the wooden floor was completely bare. Overall, the room had the impression of something once warm and lovely now stripped down to the bone… barren, ugly and unwanted.

Faith found herself relating very closely with the impression.

"It's not much, but it's the best we could do on such short notice." Beatrice gave the room a glance and raised one shoulder in indifference. "I trust you'll find it more comfortable than your previous accommodations," she added, giving Faith a stern look. "We'll talk tomorrow," she concluded, and before Faith could open her mouth, Beatrice had turned and moved down the hall, disappearing behind her own bedroom door.

"Home sweet home," Faith muttered with a shrug, stepping inside and kicking the door gently shut behind her. Without ceremony, she walked over and fell onto the bed, finding it firmer but not much more comfortable than her prison bed had been. Lifting her feet in the air, she pulled the boots from them and tossed them on the hardwood floor with a muffled thump. With a sigh, she settled in, spread her hair out on the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

As angry as it made her, and as much it frustrated her, Faith knew she couldn't expect this woman to understand that Mayor Wilkins had been like a father to her. He had lavished more care and attention on her than anyone else in her life ever had, and for that he would always remain dear to her. All anyone else had ever seen in him was evil. They'd never known how kind and gentle he could be. Perhaps she'd made the wrong choice by joining him, but she'd never doubted that he had cared about her.

And Buffy had killed him.

She had hated Buffy for that when she first woke from her coma and found out what had happened. But the Mayor had left her a gift behind, just in case Buffy won—that was so like him, always thinking of Faith first and best—and she had spent a day in Buffy's body… just one day, but that one day had been more than enough to bring home the pain of how much Faith's own life lacked. Buffy had a loving family, a loving boyfriend, loyal friends, the kind of respect and love granted only to heroes. She had felt it, and for the first time, she knew how truly empty her own life had been. And this time, the hatred had turned inward instead of outward, on herself instead of Buffy.

Once back in her own body, she'd gone on a destructive rampage fueled by a self-loathing so vicious that she'd been sure she would die. She'd  _wanted_  to die. But Angel hadn't let her. Like a true Angel, he had saved her. Not that she had any visions of him as her knight in shining armor—okay… maybe a few, late at night when she was all alone,  _without_  the armor—but of them all, Angel was the only one who'd ever truly been her friend. He was the only one who could understand her. The others didn't know what it was like to be hungry, or poor, or abused… or a killer.

 _Buffy tried_ , a voice at the back of her mind spoke up, and she sighed, shifting her position on the bed. Okay, it was true; Buffy  _had_  tried. But she had never been able to see it as genuine. She could never imagine Buffy understanding or even liking someone like her. How could she? Buffy was so straight and narrow, good and noble, so… normal, despite her Slayer life. And yet, there had been a bond between them, a feeling of sisterhood that their shared Slayer power granted them. Even though she had come to loathe Buffy for having everything she didn't, she had always felt that bond, had always wondered… if she hadn't been so overcome with jealousy, so worried about Buffy's approval, then maybe… maybe things would have been different. If it weren't for the all the horrible things that had passed between them, all the things Faith had done, maybe she would have gone to Buffy when she finally broke down. While she was in prison, she had entertained the idea that maybe, someday, she still would.

But now Buffy was dead, too, and all the maybe's and could-have-been's had died with her. There would never be a chance to put things right between them. Never a chance to explain or apologize for all the things she had done. The thought made her feel hollow inside, and it was more than just a physical feeling, more than her need to put things right. She and Buffy had shared something through the Slayer bond, something that linked them forever. It pained her that when she thought of Buffy now, all she could feel was an aching emptiness where that bond used to be.

She pulled the pillow over her head, trying to smother her thoughts. She needed to pull herself together right now, and thinking about Buffy wasn't going to help her do that. Drawing the blankets up over herself, she cleared her mind and closed her eyes, waiting for the peace of sleep to claim her.

It took a long time coming.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Angel was surprised to find the old mansion locked, boarded up and deserted. He'd expected to find some sort of vagrant demon—perhaps several of them—squatting there. But when he'd opened the door, everything had been exactly like he remembered it, save that his belongings were gone and everything was covered in an even thicker layer of dust.

He made a sweep of the place to find that everything was the same; completely untouched, almost as if he had never been gone, and he had to wonder if there were some sort of magic keeping it safe. After going over all the rooms in detail, he decided that if there were some sort of enchantment, it didn't seem to be doing him any harm. At last, he went to the old chair by the fireplace that had been his favorite, and sat down.

Back in Sunnydale. He'd never really liked it here. The Hellmouth was too…  _busy_  for his tastes. He'd only come here in the first place because of Buffy, and even then he had hated it. But he had endured it for her sake, for the sake of the greater good, and when he had left, again, it had been because of Buffy.

He'd wanted to leave her to a more normal life, to be free to love a man who could give her the kind of life she deserved. The thought fairly choked him with bitterness now, and he wondered how he ever could have thought the life of a Slayer could end in any sort of happiness. From what Willow had told him, Buffy's life had only become worse since he'd left. Not that he was responsible for it, but he could have at least been there for her. He hadn't even really known. Buffy had never been very forthcoming about her personal life in the few exchanges they'd had since he'd moved on.

He had always thought there would be time… hadn't the prophecies told him that one day he would earn his redemption and become human again? He had thought that meant that he and Buffy would be together again someday… be together like they had been when the blood of a demon had made him human for a few short hours. He had been willing to give that up, to give her up, only because the Powers told him that she would die otherwise. He had sacrificed his humanity that she might live, that they might one day have a future together, and he had carried the memory of that day like a precious gift ever since, thinking it a glimpse of what was to come once they had both fulfilled their destinies.

But destiny was a cruel master. He had known that long before he came to Sunnydale, long before he saw Buffy for the first time. But when they had been together, he had come to hope that perhaps destiny could also be kind. And so it had… until he had lost his soul. The soul returned, the love remained, but nothing between them was the same afterward. Still, he had gone on believing that they could overcome it somehow, both of them trying to stay together long after they should have seen the futility of it, and at last he could no longer ignore the pain he was causing her.

He had left then, burying his love, burying his hope, pushing it deep down inside, and he had tried to forget. Then that one day… the day they had spent together as a normal man and woman. The day he had realized what their love could really be, if given a chance. It had rekindled the hope that never really died, infusing it with a new intensity.

He slammed his fist against the arm of the chair, distantly aware of the sound of breaking wood. The Powers had given him that taste of life, of love, promised him more, and then they had taken it all back in a single instant. He could almost hear their mocking laughter.

And then… two days ago, he had been about to leave for Sri Lanka. He'd decided that he needed to go regroup; to try and reconcile the grief Buffy's death had left him with. Wesley had suggested a spiritual retreat. Gunn had suggested Vegas. Brief consideration brought him to the conclusion that exploring spirituality seemed the best way to cope without going out on a killing rampage or impaling himself on a stake. Then he'd gotten the news about the Council and Faith, and he'd known he couldn't leave just yet.

Faith. She was still something of an enigma to him, even though he felt he understood her in all the ways that mattered. In some ways, he could relate to her even better than he had to Buffy. They had similar incidents in their pasts, similar mistakes and regrets—though admittedly, his were on a far larger scale than hers. She was going to need a friend in the days ahead, and he was the only one willing to take up the challenge.

Besides, he had a feeling that helping her the way he should have helped Buffy all along would be a much better spiritual balm than any he could find among the monks.

He sat thinking, staring into the darkened fireplace until long after the first rays of dawn crept into the mansion.

* * * * * * * * * * *

In the hour before dawn, twelve vampires gathered in the bowels of the earth beneath Sunnydale, forming a circle atop a pile of stony rubble. Dressed in black, hooded cloaks, they linked hands and drew the circle tight, beginning to chant in an ancient language.

In one wall, secluded in an alcove above them, a lone figure stood cloaked in shadow. Her voice rose with theirs, more powerful, growing with intensity as the chant repeated, until at last all their voices joined in a deafening harmony that reverberated throughout the catacombs. All around them, rats shrieked and scurried for better cover, the very stones shaking with the power their voices invoked, the words repeated faster and faster until at last the walls threatened to shake themselves apart.

A crack split the wall beneath the alcove, and the figure above fell to her knees, nearly thrown from her perch by the tremor. She gripped the edge of the stone so tightly in her excitement that it crumbled beneath her fingers, and leaned over to get a better view of what was happening below.

The vampires still stood in their tight circle, though they were no longer chanting, their eyes fixed on the wall beneath her.

The stone split asunder with a sound like lightning and she leaped from the alcove as it cleaved in two, landing neatly on her feet atop the stones below. She spun, an expectant grin splitting her face, and was rewarded by what she saw.

Within the fissure stood a metal coffin that gleamed silver in the flickering candlelight. Its surface was covered with engraved symbols, some indecipherable and some blatant with their warnings of power. The magic that warded it was an almost palpable thing, and one could easily imagine it coiling in the darkness, hissing, waiting to strike at anyone foolish enough to come near.

She could appreciate the awe reflected in the faces of her followers; she even felt a bit of it, herself. But more than that, she felt elation, an almost religious ecstasy.

"At last," she whispered, her voice slithering like a serpent through the darkness.


	5. RELOAD

CHAPTER 5: RELOAD

Plug me in  
I'm alive tonight  
Out on the streets again  
Turn me on  
I'm too hot to stop  
Something you'll never forget  
Take my fist  
Break down walls  
I'm on the top tonight

No, no  
You better turn me loose  
You better set me free  
Cause I'm hot, young, running free  
A little bit better than I use to be.

Cause I'm alive  
Live wire

~Live Wire, Motley Crüe

-

 

Beatrice woke Faith in the early afternoon. The crisp business jacket and skirt had changed color, but other than that she looked just the same as the night before. In her arms she carried a bundle of clothes, which she dropped unceremoniously on the end of the bed.

"Some of these may fit you. I had to guess at your size." She gave a little half-shrug and turned back toward the door. "Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. After that we'll discuss your schedule."

Faith blinked against the bright sunlight streaming into the room and pushed herself up off the bed. She looked wonderingly at the clothes, glanced curiously after Beatrice, and then shrugged. Making a quick inventory of the articles, she found a pair of jeans and a fitted t-shirt that fit, changed quickly, then slipped on her boots and made her way downstairs.

Breakfast consisted of eggs and toast, and Beatrice left Faith to eat alone with a last command to join her in the living room after she ate.

"Now, then," Beatrice said, taking up her clipboard as Faith entered the room and took a seat. "I have a tentative schedule planned out for you, here. It will probably take a few days of getting used to, but I think it will fit you just fine." She passed a sheet of paper to Faith for review.

Faith glanced at it, nodded, and then looked back to Beatrice questioningly. "You're sure not wasting any time, are you?"

"We haven't any time to waste," Beatrice answered firmly.

She considered the older woman for a moment, then tucked a lock of hair behind one ear and glanced away moodily, her voice hardening just a bit as she went on. "Yeah, well I'm just wondering when we're gonna get to the touchy-feely stuff, 'cause, pretty much?" She paused for a second, looking back to Beatrice. "I'm in this for the 'touch'," she said, pushing a fist against the palm of her other hand to demonstrate the kind of touch she meant.

"Good," Beatrice said with a curt nod. "That's exactly what I like to hear."

Faith blinked, reluctant to ask, but too surprised not to. "Really?"

"Yes. None of that other drivel will help you be a better Slayer." Beatrice's attention had already returned to her papers.

"Good," Faith said abruptly, shortly, almost as if the word had tumbled out without her meaning it to. She sat, thinking for a moment, watching Beatrice thumb through the pages of her clipboard.

"So who's going to train with me in the afternoons?" she asked, her voice and eyes holding just a hint of mischief.

Beatrice gazed at her quizzically from behind her round-rimmed glasses, as if she didn't quite understand the question. "Why, I will, of course."

Her dark eyes fastened curiously on the tiny Watcher, and she looked the older woman up and down appraisingly.

"Think you can take me?" Faith asked with a challenging grin.

Beatrice raised her brows in that all-too-polite manner that was quickly becoming familiar, and one corner of her mouth curved in a slight smile.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Faith spent the next few days nursing bruises.

Each day they trained and sparred for several hours in the basement beneath the house, and each day Faith learned something new about style, technique and finesse—mostly on the receiving side. After sparring, she would shower, change and then meet Beatrice in the parlor where they studied typical monsters and mapped out her patrol routes. The studying was often the hardest part for her; she'd spent most of her time in prison training and keeping her body in shape as best she could. The memory of combat returned quickly enough, and in no time she was fending off Beatrice's attacks with practiced ease.

Finally, on the fourth night after she arrived, Beatrice declared her ready for her first patrol.

"Be careful, Faith," Beatrice said reprovingly as Faith prepared to leave.

"I got it covered, Ms. Hall," Faith said easily, lifting her shoulders proudly, almost arrogantly.

"It's not your skill I doubt…" She hesitated a moment, as if deciding whether or not she should say more, then offered Faith a slight nod. "Remember, I'll be expecting a full report in the morning, before you sleep."

Faith nodded, gave her Watcher a casual mock-salute, then turned and strutted out the door.

Beatrice stood in the hall, staring after Faith long after the door closed, her expression slightly troubled.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Faith had hardly passed the hedges at the edge of the yard when she heard someone—or something—approaching. She spun and faced the row of elms that separated Beatrice's house from the house next door, dropping back into a fighting stance.

"I was beginning to wonder if the Ice Queen was ever going to let you out of the house."

Angel stepped from behind the trunk of an elm, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his trench coat.

Faith relaxed, then smiled, half-jumping from her fighting stance to a normal one. "Miss me?"

He appeared to ignore the question, dark eyes boring into her intently as they always did. "You okay?" he asked instead.

She shrugged and tossed her head to one side, dark hair flying back over her shoulder. "So far, so good." She glanced thoughtfully back at the house. "She's really not so bad. I mean, yeah, in serious need of fun, but compared to prison life, she's a riot."

"She's brainwashed you, hasn't she?" he deadpanned.

Faith laughed aloud and shook her head. "Not for lack of trying."

Angel moved toward Faith and motioned for her step onto the sidewalk. After a moment, she did, and he fell into step beside her, their path taking them toward downtown Sunnydale, such as it was.

"So you been lurking in the trees, waiting for me every night?" she asked with a grin, pushing her hands into the pockets of her jeans as she walked. When he nodded, she chuckled, rolling her eyes heavenward and pushing her shoulders up around her neck, "Gosh, that's just  _so_  romantic. I mean—"

He stopped walking, seeming to stiffen, and he looked to her with those dark, impenetrable eyes. "It's just business, actually." He said it softly, matter-of-factly.

Her eyes flashed dark fire at him before they glanced away, and she raised her shoulders again, this time in a shrug. "Don't be such a killjoy. I was only kidding." She said it sardonically, but he could the undertones of hurt in her voice.

He picked up pace with her again, walking for a few minutes in silence.

They were passing the park when she spoke up again. "So what's the score on the underground? Anything happening?" she asked casually, giving him a curious sidelong glance.

He felt the tension between them fading as he replied, nodding. "Yeah. There are whispers that something big is coming. A new player in town with designs and plans."

"So pretty much the norm," she summed up with a cynical nod. "We know anything else?"

"Vampire activity has been off the scale around here lately. Seems like the new player brought his or her own groupies. Some say it's because of the rumors that the Slayer is… gone… others say it's because they're looking for something."

"Any idea what?"

"Not yet. I'm still working on reconnecting to my old connections."

Faith nodded again and they walked a while longer in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. They were coming up on the first of the graveyards past the park, the old one without a name, when Faith spotted three vampires crossing the street. They were bent low, their arms filled with what looked like books, glancing about furtively as they hurried toward the graveyard.

"Showtime," she whispered with a grin, pulling a wooden stake from the inner pocket of her jacket, and before Angel could say a word, she was off. He hesitated a moment, then stepped back into the trees, watching as she sprinted across the street. If she got into trouble he would help, but otherwise, it was best for him to keep a low profile. The less people that knew he was in town, the better.

She almost caught the first vampire by surprise. He dropped the books in his arms just as she threw her first punch, knuckles smashing painfully into his jaw. He turned his head to the side and spit out a tooth, then looked back at her with a bloody grin. "Fresh mea—"

She punched him in the mouth again, driving him backwards, and out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of the other two vampires circling around behind her. Fast as thought, she ran forward toward the first vampire, closing the distance between them in two quick strides. Still reeling from her punches, the vampire tried to hit her, but she leaped at him feet first, one foot landing solidly on his chest, the other striking him beneath the chin with all her speed and weight behind it. Simultaneously, she pushed off his chest with her bracing foot, using her momentum to flip backward in a somersault up and over the vampire behind her, catching just a split-second upside-down glimpse of its face before she landed gracefully on her feet behind it, facing its back.

It didn't stand a chance. Before it could turn, she reached out, hooked an arm around its neck from behind, and threw it over her hip to the ground. Instantly she turned and leaped, landed straddling it, and staked it right through the heart.

Quick as a cat she was back on her feet, spinning to face the vampire to her right. A glance further to the right and she saw the first vampire just pushing itself up from the ground, still recovering from her kick. She tucked the stake in the front of her jeans and grinned at the only standing vampire, who was actually kind of good-looking.

"Hey cutie," she said with a surveying tilt of her head, and then lashed out with a right cross.

He dodged and she followed through with the left, keeping the distance between them closed as she drove him backward, giving him no room to maneuver. He ducked her second punch and caught her in the stomach with a punch of his own, driving all the air from her lungs in a single, stinging breath.

She jumped back, gasping for air, and glanced right to see the other vampire closing in on her. Its bleeding grin had transformed to twisted snarl of rage, and as she met its eyes, it rushed her. Ducking under the cute vampire's follow-up punch, she dropped sideways to the ground, braced herself with one arm and swept out with her leg, knocking the bleeding vamp's feet out from under it. She pushed up with her other foot as she spun, letting the sweep carry her to her feet like a savage dancer, and then whirled rapidly in a tight quarter turn, right hook connecting with the cute vampire's chin.

Cutie staggered back, shook his head, and in the split-second it took him to regain his wits, she pulled the stake from her jeans and moved for the kill. He lunged as she struck—and impaled himself on the stake, snarling at her in impotent rage in the second before he exploded into dust.

"What a shame," she said in mock-sadness, shaking her head.

"Forget about something?" the bleeding vamp asked gleefully as he threw his arms around Faith from behind, squeezing the breath from her.

She threw her upper body forward and down, flipping the vampire over her head. He hit the ground hard, landing flat on his back, and before he could move, she fell to her knees and staked him.

"Nope," she said casually and sat back, jamming the stake in the ground and brushing off her hands.

Just then, she sighted a fourth vampire slinking across the street toward the graves. It was also male, and it glanced around suspiciously, clutching something—probably another book—protectively against its chest.

She didn't stop to think, taking off at a run to catch the creature before it could disappear within the maze of crypts and headstones. She hadn't gotten far when its head came up and it hissed, looking back over its shoulder at her with baleful eyes. With a display of intellect that set it apart from its counterparts, it began to run, making a sharp turn around the corner of a crypt.

Cursing, she gave up all pretense of cover, increasing her speed to a flat out run. She came around the corner, expecting to see the creature's back far up ahead, and stopped dead.

The vampire flew into her with enough force to crack one of her ribs, and she landed sprawling on the ground, the creature dead weight atop her, pinning her down. It didn't seem very interested in biting her now that it had her down, though, and even as she pushed at it, shoving it off her, it was already scrambling up from the ground as if trying to escape.

"Oh no, you don't!" she grunted, turning on her side and grabbing at its leg, both hands fastening around the ankle. She gave a hard yank and pulled the vampire's foot out from under it, watching its face hit the earth with a satisfying smack. Brushing off her hands, she leaped to her feet, one hand reaching for the small of her back and the second stake she had stashed there in the waistline of her jeans.

She had just closed her fingers around the splintery wood when someone kicked her from behind so hard that she pitched forward into the grass like a felled tree, hitting her head against a small stone marker. The world swam and threatened to fade out, and she bit down on her tongue, the sharp pain bringing the world back into focus with a rush of sensation. Not pausing to look around, her instincts screaming at her, she rolled over on her back, and heard something rush past her ear, thudding into the solid ground beside her head. Pressing the palms of her hands into the grass above her head, she drew her knees up, rocked her body backwards and then pushed off, throwing her legs forward, the momentum pulling her to her feet with a graceful springing motion. Again, on instinct, she spun away from her attacker and ducked, feeling the whisper of air above her head as her opponent's punch sailed over it. Without thought, she sprang from her crouched posture, fist forward, and it connected with something with a solid crunch.

She leaped back a step to reassess the situation, and for the first time she got a good look at her opponent.

The vampire was long gone, but Faith's brain hadn't even processed that fact yet. She stood, open-mouthed, staring at the young woman who stared back at her, hand drawn back in a forgotten fist.

"Hi Faith," the girl said, almost cheerfully, and then punched her in the nose.

Faith fell back on her butt, barely even catching herself, and sat there in the grass, still open-mouthed, blood beginning to trickle from her nose.

The girl wound up, preparing to deliver a spinning kick that might have broken Faith's neck, when Angel jumped over one of the headstones and crashed into her, bearing her to the ground. He grabbed a handful of the girl's blond hair and pulled it out of her face, jerking her head back—and then he let go as if he had been burned, rising quickly to his feet and backing away, his expression horrified and amazed.

"Buffy?" his voice was a bare, choked whisper.

The blond sat up and got to her feet, eyeing him curiously as she stood. "Angel," she said, as if the name made little sense to her.

"Don't—don't you recognize me?" he asked, voice cracking, his mouth suddenly gone dry.

"You're Angel," the girl said with more certainty, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Then, as if she had remembered him, she smiled.

"You're bloody stupid, and your hair goes straight up."

Angel gaped.

"You must be evil again," she said matter-of-factly, the perky tone never leaving her voice. "Or else you wouldn't be protecting Faith."

"B? B-Buffy?" Faith asked weakly.

"That's me," the girl said with a broad smile. "And you're Faith. My nemesis. You're the other Slayer." She paused as if trying to recall something, and then she smiled as if she had remembered. "And also a skanky ho," she added brightly.

Angel was shaking his head slowly back and forth. "It can't be," he breathed.

Buffy dropped into fighting stance without warning, sending a hard kick at Faith's face.

Faith grabbed Buffy by the ankle before the blow connected and twisted, pushing forward and up from the ground with her legs, throwing Buffy backwards. Buffy staggered back but didn't fall, and Faith spun, following through with a snap-kick aimed at Buffy's chest. Buffy tried to duck the blow, but Faith's boot struck her across the forehead instead, and she flew back, her spine hitting a headstone with a loud crack before she tumbled backward over it and disappeared.

Faith jumped back next to Angel and stood, hands still clenched into fists, ready to fight if Buffy jumped up. "I don't want to hurt her," she said, glancing at him.

"Something's not right," he said, mind racing, trying to put together all the pieces.

Buffy stood up and began to walk towards them—

-And walked right into the headstone.

"Must return to Willow for repairs," she said, bumping into the headstone again.

Angel and Faith looked at each other, then back at Buffy. Sparks flashed, leaping up from a gash in her side, and the smell of burning copper filled the air.

"A robot?" Faith said incredulously.

"I knew something wasn't right!" Angel exclaimed triumphantly.

"Yeah, gold star for you, boy genius. Your beloved is a robot and you can't even tell until she goes all 'Short Circuit' on us?" She gave Angel a reproachful look. "I thought you were a vampire?"

Angel shrugged, looking sheepish. "It's the Hellmouth. The mystical energies are so strong here that they confuse my senses."

"God, you gotta love this town," she said with a bitter laugh. She put one hand on her hip and ran the other through her hair, thinking.

"Okay. We can't let her get back to Willow. That's all I need right now: the Scooby-gang trying to solve the mystery of the Evil Slayer."

Angel glanced away, speaking up hesitantly. "Don't you think you should talk to them? I mean maybe they—"

"Maybe they what?" Faith broke in. Hands on her hips, she walked up to Angel, face upturned toward his, dark eyes blazing hotly. "Maybe they'd throw me a welcome-back party? Tell me how much they missed me? Talk about old times? Oh! I know!" she said fiercely, twisting her neck to the side, shoving her face unexpectedly closer to his. "Maybe they'd throw me a nice crucifixion! I hear those are  _huge_  social events!"

He stared down at her, his face as impassive as ever… expressionless, emotionless. God, she hated that. How had Buffy ever dealt with it?

"Don't you think you're being a little melodramatic?" he asked, and if he was making fun of her, she couldn't hear it in his voice. "They might—"

"No!" The word sprang from her suddenly, vehemently, and she shoved her face so close to his that their noses almost touched. Her eyes grew uncertain then, and she backed up a few steps, lowering her gaze. Uncomfortably, self-consciously, she shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans and shifted her shoulders, tossing her hair back out of her face. "No," she said again more quietly. She lifted her eyes to his again, her expression still disconcerted, but under control.

"You're going to have to face them sooner or later."

"Not if I'm careful," she muttered darkly, as if to herself.

"Faith…"

"Okay, okay! God you are  _such_  a downer!" she exclaimed in exasperation. "Yes! Eventually I'll have to face them, and when I do, I'll deal with it, okay?" She met his eyes squarely, as if daring him to challenge her. When he said nothing, she went on. "But not now. Not yet." Her tone was harsh, and yet he couldn't help but notice how her voice and eyes faltered on those last words, almost as if she were pleading with him not to push her.

Angel nodded, then blinked, looking thoughtful. "So, what do we do?"

"About what?" she asked defensively.

He nodded in the direction of the robot.

"Oh."

Faith gave him a hesitant look and stepped forward, tucking her hair back behind one ear. She knew it was a robot, not Buffy, which made the thing infinitely easier for her to hit—she didn't have to hold back anymore—but still, it didn't quite feel right. She paused, taking a moment to line up her kick, and she favored the robot with a brief look of pity as it walked into the headstone repeatedly. This wasn't Buffy. This was a sad mockery of Buffy's memory, and she felt sudden anger well up inside her at the thought of the Scoobies coming up with such a disrespectful… thing. Focusing that anger, she pushed off with one foot, lifting it high in the air as she spun in a hard circle, boot connecting solidly with the side of the robot's head. There was a flash and a brief squawk of static, and when she came to a halt, the robot's head lay on the ground beside its body.

Faith stood over it, gazing down at Buffy's face solemnly. "We put her where the Scoobies will never find her."


	6. LOST AND FOUND

CHAPTER 6: LOST AND FOUND

Don't want to follow  
Down roads been walked before  
It's so hard to find unopened doors  
Are you ready? Are you ready?  
Hey, Mr. Hero Walking a thin, fine line  
Under the microscope of life  
Remember your roots, my friend  
They're right down below  
'Cause heroes come and heroes go  
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one  
Count down to the change in life that's soon to come  
Your life has just begun

~ Are You Ready?, Creed

-

 

The sun had risen, its newborn pink blossoming into full yellow by the time Faith arrived back at the house. She entered quietly, hoping to slip up the stairs and to bed before talking to Beatrice, but as she passed the kitchen doorway, she saw Beatrice there, waiting for her—at least, she assumed it was Beatrice. It was hard to tell with the open Sunnydale Press obscuring its reader. She was sitting at the table, seemingly engrossed in reading, and Faith thought there might still be a chance to slip by…

As if she sensed Faith's thought, the paper rustled, lowering to reveal Beatrice's eyes. "Good morning, Faith. How did it go?"

"The winner and still champion, all in one piece." Faith shrugged and stepped closer to the kitchen, leaning against the doorway. "Just like old times."

Beatrice waited a moment, and when Faith offered no further information, she set the paper down in front of her, rested her elbows on it, and leaned forward intently. "Yes, that's very informative… but did you have any actual encounters?"

She straightened her posture a little and smiled. "Three vamps," she confirmed with pride. "Dusted 'em all."

"Very good. Could you be a  _little_  more specific?" Beatrice asked wryly.

Faith sighed, impatient, and tilted her head toward her shoulder as if to say it was no big deal. "Not much to tell. I was patrolling by the old unnamed graveyard; I saw sneaky vampires crossing the road to the cemetery; I totally kicked their asses." She shrugged again.

Beatrice blinked. "You mean the graveyard on Mayer Street? Near the park?"

"That's the one."

"Really?" Beatrice seemed fascinated by the information, her gaze growing even more intent. "What were they doing?"

She shifted uncomfortably against the doorjamb, her voice taking on a defensive quality. "What do you mean?"

"You said they were sneaking… what were they doing?"

"Who knows?" Faith replied, glancing away. "You can never tell with those wacky vamps."

Beatrice pursed her lips, looked down at her paper, and then proceeded to fold it so that the article she was reading faced the outside.

"What happened to the books?" Beatrice asked.

"What?" Faith blurted, looking startled.

"The books," Beatrice said patiently. She turned the paper toward Faith so that she could see the headline of the article Beatrice had been reading; 'Rare Books Stolen' it said in bold black letters, and then underneath, in smaller print, 'Owner Says Antique Books Were Irreplaceable'. Next to it there was a picture of the storefront across the street from the graveyard.

Damn! The paper had the story  _already_? It had happened early yesterday evening, sure, but still, she hadn't seen any police. Then again, they hadn't stuck around long after the fight, except to gather up all the books and the… robot.

"Surely the two events are related, considering how close the vampires were to the store," Beatrice remarked, studying Faith curiously.

"I—I didn't see any books."

"Faith…" Beatrice's voice betrayed just a touch of disappointment, the slightest hint of a warning.

"I said I didn't! What? You don't believe me?" she challenged angrily, pushing off the doorjamb.

She hated to lie, but she didn't know what else to do—she hadn't expected Beatrice to know about the books. Angel had taken them back to the mansion to try and translate them, but she could hardly tell Beatrice that. First of all she'd probably freak out over Angel hanging around, and second, then she'd  _know_  Faith had been lying. And, she hated to admit it, but there was part of her that was angry about being thought of as a liar, even if the description fit her right now. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time…

" _Should_  I believe you?" Beatrice asked calmly, arching an eyebrow at Faith. She sounded as if she truly wanted to know.

"What do  _you_  think?" Faith fairly spat the words.

"I think I want to believe you… but I think your past and your extensive dossier make it difficult."

"And  _I_  think  _you're_  wasting my time," she shot back, giving her Watcher a last angry look before she turned on her heel and went up the stairs to her room.

"You're the only one who can change that, Faith," Beatrice called after her, not certain if the Slayer heard her.

A door slammed somewhere upstairs, leaving Beatrice alone to contemplate what she was going to put in her first 'Slayer progress report'.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Willow paced the length of the checkout counter at the Magic Box, crossing and uncrossing her arms in agitation. It had been a long thirty-six hours and she was extremely cranky, having spent most of the night studying spell books and the entirety of her day searching Sunnydale for a trace of the Buffy-bot. She was tired, hungry and frustrated, and she was running low on patience with the off-hand dismissals she was getting from the rest of the group.

"Are you certain she was repaired properly?" Giles asked, looking up from the book he was perusing.

"Yes!" Willow snapped in annoyance, and then grimaced in realization of her tone. She glanced around, making sure there were no customers present in the shop, and then lowered her voice anyway. "Sorry. But yes! I'm sure she was. It took me forever to get the wiring on the head just right. And then the reprogramming—I'm still not even done with that! I'd barely even gotten started."

"Then she's out there trolling for sex with Spike right now," Anya concluded sensibly. "Have you checked his crypt?"

Willow made a face and shook her head. "No, she's not there. I wiped that part of her program. And besides, I checked!" she added when Anya gave her a disbelieving look.

"Then perhaps she ran into something she couldn't handle?" Giles asked.

Willow shrugged, seeming uncertain. "I don't know. Maybe. I know that we've got to find her!"

Xander spoke up from his seat at the table. "I don't know, Will… it's kind of weird, having her around."

Giles nodded thoughtfully in agreement and Willow shot him a wounded look of betrayal. "Well, it is," he said, sounding only faintly indignant as he defended himself.

"You all agreed that this is what we needed to do," she said quietly.

"Yeah…" Xander hedged, shifting in his seat. "But that was before…"

"Before what?" Willow asked, her voice challenging.

Xander looked away from her intense gaze and shrugged in answer.

"It—it just… doesn't seem right somehow," Giles said, trying to keep his voice as steady as he could. He didn't want to upset Willow, but having the Buffy-bot around was almost too much for him to bear. He could only imagine how it must be for the others, especially—

"I don't like it, either," Dawn said moodily, not bothering to look up from the table. She'd barely said a word since Buffy died, and as a result, they often forgot she was there at all. Everyone stopped, as if suddenly aware she existed, looking at her, and then, almost as one, they all looked away again, as if the guilt were too much to bear. "She thinks she  _is_  Buffy."

"And she's so… perky," Xander added uncertainly, as if it offended him but he wasn't sure why it should.

"It's just too painful, Willow," Giles concluded quietly.

"I don't know how  _you_  can stand it," Xander added.

"Plan B, remember? She's all we've got!" Willow countered desperately. "If the monsters figure out that Buffy is…  _then_  what will we do?"

For a long moment no one said anything, and at last, Anya raised her hand. "We could live underground like those mole-people we saw in that movie last night." Everyone turned to look at her, and she smiled, oblivious to the strange looks they were giving her. "It was so romantic. Especially the part when the man proposed to the—"

Xander forced a laugh and waved his hand through the air as if to make light of the comment. "We were watching The Time Machine," he explained uneasily.

Anya sighed and gave him a resigned look, glanced down at her unadorned ring finger, then went back to stocking the shelves.

Willow ignored the comment, looking at each of them imploringly. "So we just let her go because it's a little weird? The monsters  _will_  come, and… What if Dawn's dad finds out? You know he'll never let her stay with us. And we can't do patrol forever… we're not built to keep a Slayer's sleep schedule."

She knew she sounded a little more desperate than she should have been, but she hoped they would chalk it up to grief over Buffy. She  _was_  desperate—she needed them to want the Buffy-bot around, no matter how weird it seemed. The stress of trying to find the right resurrection spell was starting to wear heavily on her, and what she really needed was more time to do research; time she wouldn't have if she had to head up patrolling. And, there was the fact that everything she'd said was true, even if it wasn't her main focus. Besides… having the Buffy-bot around was like a prequel to having the real Buffy back. She'd hoped it would help pave the way in everyone's minds for the real Slayer's eventual return.

The silence in the room was almost palpable, everyone glancing at everyone else, trying to gauge their answer.

"I don't like it," Dawn said again, her voice quavering.

"Dawnie…" Willow frowned sadly, regarding the younger girl. Of them all, Dawn was the one she worried most about. She had suffered more than any of them had at her age, and Willow often wondered how much permanent damage had been done to the girl. From finding out she wasn't even human up until a year ago, to discovering she was the key to the destruction of the universe, to losing first her mother and then her sister to sudden death, Dawn had had a pretty rough life for someone who was technically only one year old.

Still… this was important, as important to Dawn as any of them, even if she wasn't aware of it yet, and she couldn't let Dawn's sentimentality get in the way of reality. She didn't want to hurt her, but, if things worked out the way she hoped they were going to, it wouldn't be long until Buffy was back—and then Dawn would be so much happier that the Buffy-bot would be a distant memory.

"Do you have any better ideas?" she asked the younger girl, her voice soft. When Dawn didn't answer, she continued, "The Buffy-bot is the only way we can take care of the world  _and_  you."

Dawn looked away, silence her only answer.

"Dawn?" she pressed.

"Okay," Dawn muttered unhappily, still not looking at her.

"It's for the best," Willow said softly, still speaking to Dawn. Then, raising her voice, "That's one. What about the rest of you?"

There were more exchanged glances and much shuffling of feet, until at last everyone nodded their silent agreement.

"Of course you're right, Willow," Giles said in that quiet, reasonable way he had that set her heart at ease. "We'll find her."

Satisfied, Willow nodded. She felt bad about pressuring everyone into agreement, but it was only out of necessity. A few more weeks, and hopefully there would be no more need for these types of arguments.

"So  _how_  do we find her?" Xander asked after a moment.

And now they were back to the crux of the problem. "I don't know…" Willow said sullenly as she sat down on the edge of the table.

"What about a spell?" Anya asked as she slid a book into place on a shelf.

"Oh, locator spells don't work on anything without a human essence," Tara said, almost apologetically.

"Well, we can do it the gumshoe way," Xander said, warming to the subject. "Who can we beat up on today?" he asked, rubbing his hands together in mock-anticipation.

Willow brightened, looking at Xander with a wicked gleam in her eye. "I think I know just the guy."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Willy the Snitch wiped down the bar top and did a quick mental inventory of his liquor stock. He still had a few more things to take care of before he opened for the evening, but with an hour to spare until then, he figured there was no need to rush.

When the door bell clanged, announcing the arrival of a new customer, he tucked the bar rag into his belt apron and stood straight, yelling, "We're not open ye—"

That was all he got out before he was pinned to the wall behind the bar, his rear end pinching uncomfortably against the deep sink.

He couldn't move, but he could speak, and he groaned in misery as he caught sight of his assailant. "You again."

"Again?" Xander mouthed quietly, looking at Willow.

"Spell component," Willow whispered nervously as an aside to Xander and Spike. Then, trying to push her features into an expression of intimidating anger, she intoned, "Don't incur my wrath, little man. Tell us what we want to know and we won't hurt you."

"Much," Spike added.

"Hah! You guys don't scare me. Hell, even Spike can't touch me since he had the operation. And the human boy there—gah!" Willy choked as Willow tightened her spell-grip around him. Her expression was still only a parody of anger, but suddenly he didn't feel like risking the reality. He'd nearly ticked her off last week, and he still had the bruises to prove it.

"Huhh," he breathed, feeling her grip loosen a bit. "Okay, maybe  _you_  scare me a little, Witchy. But I like that in a woman. If you ever need a real man to escort you around town and do your dirty work, my number's on the matchbooks."

"Don't flatter yourself, Willy," Spike said, moving toward him. "I hear they call you Wee-Willy-Winkie 'hind your back 'round here, and I'm sure the lady here'd just love a firsthand look at why."

"Okay, okay!" Willy spoke up quickly. "What is it you wanna know?"

"The Slayer," Spike said as if that explained everything, his tone commanding. "What have you heard?"

"What?" Willy laughed nervously with what little air he had in his lungs. "I thought you guys were her buds?"

Willow tightened her grip and Spike took another step toward him.

"Okay! Ow!" he said, looking pointedly at Willow, who looked mildly chagrined and loosened her spell.

"I don't know nothin' about Buffy. I heard she died in that weird electrical storm a few weeks back, but just rumors, you know. Wishful monster thinkin'. I heard someone saw her a coupla nights ago, but mostly the buzz has been about the new Slayer in town."

Willy fell into the deep sink as Willow let go of him in shock. He tried to push himself up and out, but found that he was wedged deep inside, folded in half, his nose pressed against his knees. He had a few seconds to wonder if they were just going to leave him there, and then he felt the metal faucet scrape his back as he was hauled out of the sink and to his feet by his collar.

Spike's face was dangerous as he eyed Willy, irises hard as stone and flecked with fire. "What did you say?"

"There's a new Slayer in town, according to one of the vamps that was in here last night." Willy's eyes flickered back and forth between them all. "Said he almost got nailed by her."

The vampire had, in fact, said he'd gotten caught between two Slayers, if you could believe that. Willy chalked that up to big talk; he'd heard the 'I got caught between two Slayers' story more times than he could count ever since that foreign girl had shown up with Buffy a few years back. Besides, this guy was new in town, and new vamps always had something to prove. The second Slayer though, he believed that part. He'd heard rumors from other sources about her arrival. The part that was hard to figure was who she was, exactly.

"Where?" Spike asked, his voice hard and cold.

"I don't know," Willy answered truthfully. "Nobody even knows who she is, yet. All this guy saw was that she was about yay tall," he held his hand out, palm down at about his nose level, "with long, dark hair. Said she was kind of a looker, from what little bit of a glance he got."

Spike eyed Willy for a moment more, and then shoved the barkeep away, wincing slightly as the chip flared to painful life in his head. He clenched one hand into a fist, as if he longed for something, or perhaps someone, to hit, and then he spun and stalked out the door without another word.

After a moment, Xander and Willow followed him.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Spike stormed down the street, leather trench coat flaring behind him like an extension of his anger. He didn't even know why he was so upset… it was par for course: the way of the world. One Slayer dies and another is called. Wash, rinse, and repeat. Hell, he'd even perpetuated the cycle two times in his past. He knew exactly how it worked. Why the hell was it bothering him so much now?

He could hear the others trailing behind him, shuffling nervously, uncertain. With a snort of bitter laughter, he realized that they knew as well as he did why this was such a big deal. Another Slayer had been called… and that meant that Buffy was really and truly dead.

Somehow, that simple fact, that cycle of the supernatural, brought her death home to him in a way nothing else had. He had wept over her broken body, helped to dig the grave her body lay in, watched as the others had set the headstone in place that marked her passing… and through it all, somehow, she had lived on in his heart. He hadn't really said goodbye, hadn't been ready to let her go, and now the world threatened to pull from him even the thin comfort of his heart, the hazy hope of his dreams. He'd had nights when he wondered if the mourning would ever end… now he wondered if it had even truly begun.

He stopped in front of a narrow alley, thrusting his hands deep in the pockets of his coat, and threw back his head, closing his eyes as he took a deep breath, steadying himself.

A new Slayer. Right, then.

He turned and made his way down the alley without so much as a backward glance.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Wow, a new Slayer," Xander said, his voice devoid of any emotion save shock.

Beside him Willow nodded, too shocked, herself, to think of anything to say.

Xander watched Spike turn the corner and considered going after him, then decided to let him have his James Dean moment. He'd only say something to piss Spike off, anyway. Restlessly, he kicked at a can in the gutter, and it skittered down the curb with an ugly grating sound. He reflected that the sound pretty much summed up how he felt right now, and kicked it again as he caught up with it.

"It's funny," he said, after a moment. "Even though it kills me, I almost feel like we should… you know… go to her. I mean—she could probably use some help, and who knows the terrain better than us?" He risked a sidelong glance at Willow, wondering what she thought.

She stopped walking and turned to look at him, her face a turmoil of warring emotions. "I know," she said quietly. "But no."

"I know it seems… blasphemous, but think—"

"No," she said again, and even though her voice was quiet, he felt the force of the command behind it.

"Well, what else do we have to do?" he asked defensively, taking on an edge of sarcasm.

She looked down at the ground, opened her mouth to speak, closed it again. Wrapping her arms around her body as if she were cold, she seemed to look everywhere but directly at him.

He had turned to begin walking again when she finally spoke.

"There's something we need to talk about…"

* * * * * * * * * * *

In the late hours before dawn, far beneath Sunnydale, the woman known to her followers only as "mistress" sat sprawled in a throne-like chair, turning the pages of an ancient text.

It was written in Sumerian, as she had requested, but it was exceedingly difficult to read, and she wondered if perhaps it was written in some sort of local ancient dialect. At any rate, it didn't seem to have any of the information she required, and after a moment she slammed the tome shut and placed it on the table beside her.

Perhaps if she'd had the other books her followers had gathered for her…

But the Slayer had seen to that, ensuring that all the books, save this one, never reached their destination. She had worried that the new Slayer might interfere with her plans, but she'd been confident, based on the intelligence she'd been able to gather, that she could handle this Chosen One. What she hadn't counted on was the Slayer having help.

 _Angelus…_  
  
She couldn't afford to go up against him yet… but soon, very soon, there would come a reckoning between them… and then, scores old and new would be settled.

Her face twisted in disgust as she thought of the souled vampire. Of all the supporters the Slayer could have, Angelus was by far the most dangerous. He above all had the most chance of figuring out her intent… and according to her followers, he had possession of the texts she needed right now.

She clenched one hand in a fist, nails digging deep into her flesh, and blood welled from the shallow crescents, the sharp, coppery scent attracting the attention of her nearest minion.

"Mistress?" he asked hesitantly, his form shadowy in the flickering candlelight, becoming more visible as he stepped toward her.

She rose from her seat and folded her arms over her chest, regarding the vampire thoughtfully for a moment before she turned and began pacing the length of the dais.

"Angelus has my texts…"

"Yes, mistress," the vampire replied, almost apologetic, lowering his eyes from her burning gaze respectfully.

"They must be regained," she said, her voice quivering with the rage of her command.

"Yes, mistress," the vampire answered again. Without daring to look up at her, he spoke up nervously. "But mistress, several of us have tried already this night to enter Angelus' home… it is protected by a spell that keeps us out."

She stopped pacing and the vampire cringed in anticipation of her rage, but she only stood there, staring at him, and then she turned back to her pacing.

"Then we will find another way," she said quietly, resolutely. From the edge of his vision, he saw her step from the dais, moving toward the silver coffin that lay at the center of the room.

"The day draws near," she said, running a hand over the coffin almost reverently, her flesh not quite daring to touch the metal itself for fear of its protective spells. Her eyes caressed it like a lover, and for a moment, she seemed overwhelmed by its very presence, forgetting that she'd been speaking. After a long silence, she moved again, circling the coffin like a shark until she stopped on the opposite side. "There is much to be done in the time we have, and I cannot afford the interference of this would-be Angel."

"He seems resolved to stay, mistress. He renovates his dwelling."

"Yes," she said absently. "He would." Her gaze fell upon the intricately carved coffin again, eyes tracing the delicate designs of power. "Very well then. Let him keep the books."

"Mistress?" the vampire asked, confused.

"'Better is a handful of quietness than both the hands full of labor and striving after wind.'" Her eyes lost and far away, she didn't appear to hear her minion at all. After a moment, she nodded, as if in agreement with herself.

"Bring me my spell components," she commanded the vampire, walking back to her throne chair.

If Angelus thought he was safe just because he had a protective spell, he was wrong.

 _Dead_  wrong.


	7. OLD HABITS

CHAPTER 7: OLD HABITS

I know it hurts, what you believe:  
That everything is just as it seems

The walls are cracked, the road is long  
And I can't tell if their will is that strong

To force a change in the light to relieve you from strife  
To force a change in the heart as it all comes crashing down

You never will see it,  
You never will know,  
You never will feel it,  
and where did you go?

~Naked Birthday, Switchblade Symphony

-

 

The streets of Sunnydale seemed deserted as Faith strolled down the main street sidewalk, occasionally ducking her head into a side alley, idly twirling a stake between her fingertips as she went. It was bold—she knew there was a chance that a vamp might see her stake and run—but most vamps were so stupid and aggressive that they rarely gave thought to minor matters such as stakes, their urge to kill overwhelming their instinct to survive. Most of them saw a stake as a challenge to fight, anyway, if they noticed it at all, and a lone girl walking down darkened streets was too much like a free lunch to pass up. Besides, she'd been patrolling for a few hours without incident… the last few  _nights_  without incident, truth told. She'd given up hunting the graveyards the last few nights because they were so…well…dead.

The vampires had been keeping a low profile lately, as if they knew a Slayer was back in town, not to mention that summer was always notoriously slow on weird activity, even on the Hellmouth. She'd just about decided to take another pass by the park, when a glass shop door flew open not ten feet in front of her.

A vampire ran out, thick tome stuffed under one arm, and without looking left or right, took off down the street away from the town center.

Faith flipped the stake up in the air, caught it expertly in the ready position, and took off after it, the hard heels of her boots pounding against the pavement as she closed the distance between her and the creature. It knew she was there, now, and it didn't pause to look back at her as it increased its speed.

She pressed on, gaining speed, and gathered herself for a leap, pushing off with one foot in mid-stride. Tackling the creature to the ground, she pounded the stake through the back of its rib cage and into its heart, barely giving it time to scream in outrage. A second later she lay on the pavement amidst a pile of dust, rounded corners of the book pressing uncomfortably into her stomach. Pushing up with her arms, she sprang to her feet and then leaned to grab the book from the ground.

The second vamp bowled into her like a lineman, simultaneously bending to snatch the book while catching her with its shoulder before she could fully regain her balance. She fell back on her butt, hitting the ground so hard that her teeth rattled and her tailbone bruised, but she didn't waste a second, climbing to her feet and spinning—

The street was empty.

 _It had to have gone down a side alley_ , she thought, and took off running for the nearest one. She turned hard to make the corner and was surprised as someone stepped in her path, blocking her way.

She tried to stop, but she collided with him anyway, managing to turn her head aside as she fell, full weight forward, against his chest. She felt strong arms come up and around her, steadying her, and she looked up.

"Angel," she said with mild surprise, flashing him a bright grin. "We gotta stop meeting like this. People are gonna talk."

He stood there with his arms around her for a moment longer, Faith gazing up at him, still thrown against him, and for a second, they looked like a picture on the cover of some dramatic romance novel… then he gently pushed her to her feet. Making sure she had her balance, he let go of her and took a step back, shifting and smiling uncomfortably. He scratched self-consciously at the back of his neck and lifted his hand to display the book the vamp had taken off with.

"I uh… found the book."

"Wow," she quipped cynically. Taking a step back, herself, she eyed him up and down critically, amused but resigned. "You know, the gypsies never said the tall, dark, handsome, mysterious stranger in my life was gonna be so  _boring_."

"Be glad the gypsies decided to make me boring," he said with the faintest hint of a bitter smile.

She rolled her eyes and snorted. "Yeah, 'cause tragedy is  _so_  much more fun."

"Faith—"

"I know, I know," she said, annoyed, hooking her thumbs in the belt loops of her jeans, eyes turned skyward in exasperation. "'It's not a tragedy, it's a second chance'," she mocked in a dramatic tone. "Blah blah blah. Spare me the sermon, okay?" Shaking her head, she looked at him in disgusted wonderment. "What is it with you old people and lecturing, anyway?"

"Your agitation level is… Chernobyl-like," he commented with perplexed sarcasm.

" _You_  try living with Der Fuhrer."

"I thought you said she wasn't so bad?" he asked, confused.

"Things change." She said it casually enough, but there was a touch of bitterness in her voice that was unmistakable.

He nodded, his mind making the connections quickly, and glanced down at the book in his hand. "She still giving you trouble about the books?"

Her whole casual façade seemed to falter, as if she were deciding how to answer the question, and he was suddenly aware of how much of a show she'd been putting on, how forced her casualness was; as if she had receded behind her walls and fallen into old deflective habits. She hadn't told him much about what had happened beyond the fact that Beatrice was suspicious about the fate of the books, but he could imagine the resulting mistrust, and how bitter that must be for Faith to face.

"No. Pretty much we don't talk," she said with a shrug, turning and beginning to walk. "Except for nightly reports. But I can  _hear_  the sermon she's giving me in her head."

He almost chuckled at her comment, then caught himself and frowned, seeming to struggle with his emotions as he fell into step beside her. "I feel bad… I mean, maybe we should have given her the books. It was your first night of patrol—"

"Hey, no big," she broke in, her voice breezy and unconcerned. She half-turned toward him as she took a step, hands gesturing upward from her sides, palms open. "It's done. Why dwell?"

She sounded so upbeat, so confident and sure of herself… but he could hear the pain undercutting her devil-may-care tone, grating like bright shards of broken glass. He knew that voice, knew it intimately.

"So, you got the book," she remarked, as if the previous subject were closed. "Good work. You got the whole Time/Life series yet?"

He didn't answer right away, still debating whether or not to pursue the subject of her Watcher. "I don't know," he said, finally, deciding to let it go for now. "I can't seem to make heads or tails of these texts. But considering the number of thefts there have been lately, there must be something to them."

"So, no ideas?" she asked, glancing over and up at him.

He looked back at her, not quite willing to share, but not wanting to shut her out, either. This was a delicate point for her, and he knew his actions could push her further away, but he wasn't quite ready to drag her into the scourge of the underworld. The less people that knew her or even knew  _of_  her, the safer she would be. "There's a guy…" he finally hedged.

"Great!" she said eagerly, excited as she stopped and turned toward him. Closing one hand in a fist, she hit her open palm with it and twisted. "Let's go rough him up and see what we can find out."

Damn. He should have known she'd be eager for distraction. "I—I should probably go alone. The less people that know about you, or that can connect me to you, the better."

"Oh…" she said, glancing away. She hesitated only a second, then, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, she seemed to shrug with her whole body, eyes bouncing back to him brightly, almost fiercely. "Right. The whole undercover thing." She nodded and put her hands in her jacket pockets, stepping backward. "That's cool."

"Faith… it's not that I don't want you to go. It's just… for the best right now."

"I get it," she said abruptly, her voice harsh with irritation. Then she paused, seeming to realize her control was slipping, and let her usual tough front fall back into place with practiced ease. "Hey, there's probably some vamps out there just itching for a good fight." She gave him a forced smile and stepped back again, turning to go.

"I'll let you know what I find out," he added quickly.

She paused, looking at him oddly. "Sure," she said with a quick nod. "Yeah. I'll see you later." Then she turned and strode off down the street at a rapid pace.

He watched her back recede into the distance and sighed. Two hundred and forty-four years… and he still had no idea how to deal with people.

* * * * * * * * * * *

As soon as she was sure she was out of his sight, she slowed her pace, her fingers flexing their grip against the stake in her hand.

God, she hated this turmoil inside her, these conflicting emotions that threatened to pull her in a thousand different directions, tearing her away from herself until she didn't even know who she was anymore. That's what had gotten her into trouble in the first place, years ago. She'd gotten swept away by the wave of overwhelming emotional conflict, and rather than drown she'd decided to crest the wave and ride it, taking it all the way to the tidal destruction of everything she'd ever known. The resulting wreckage had seemed unsalvageable. The memories of her past were forever blackened by unforgivable sins, her soul forever tainted by the darkness she'd allowed to reign in her mind and heart. She couldn't get clean again… and she'd tried to destroy even the shattered remains of herself. And then, Angel… the push she needed to begin rebuilding. She'd started picking up the pieces, and for a little while, she'd thought she'd found herself—had found some peace, anyway. And now, here she was, back in Sunnydale with the second chance she'd always wanted… and it was exactly the same. The cycle was beginning again; the wave was building.

 _Wherever you go, there you are._  
  
She smiled bitterly and stopped, shoving the stake in the waistband of her jeans and running her hands over her face. Collecting herself, she stepped onto the side street and leaned back against the brick wall of an old building, tilting her face up toward the star-filled night sky.

Why was she so upset, anyway? Angel had always been mysterio guy, brooding and lurking and close-mouthed. She knew he didn't mean anything by investigating without her; he probably  _did_  believe it was for the best. And if he'd bothered to break down all the reasons why, she'd have probably agreed with him. So why did it still hurt?

The truth was, she needed Angel. He was all she had to cling to right now, the only person she could trust, the only person she could rely on. If he deserted her, she'd truly be alone, and that scared her more than if she hadn't had anyone. She didn't like the idea of having so much be dependent on one person… that meant she had something to lose. She'd learned a long time ago not to give too much of herself to anyone… she'd never trusted more than parts of herself to people, and even then they'd betrayed her trust, every time. But, Angel… for some reason, he was different. He truly seemed to understand… part of her  _wanted_  to trust him… and somehow that made him the scariest person of all.

Maybe Ms. Hall could've been an ally, but she'd already screwed that up, hadn't she? There was no way she could have known Ms. H would know about the books… she had done what she thought best. Angel knew about that kind of stuff, and he was more connected to the goings on in Sunnydale than Ms. H… and, she had to admit, she trusted him more. It was impossible to forget how utterly cruel the Council could be. She'd seen them in action, first with B, and then with her. They would have hunted her into the ground if she hadn't turned herself over to the authorities, and even now they held the threat of death over her head to guarantee her obedience. How could she trust anything that came from them? She couldn't… and yet the rift between her and her Watcher was one that was causing her both guilt and unhappiness.

She swept her hair back from her face, resting her hands on top of her head, letting the cool of the brick seep through her, letting it soothe the stormy tide of emotions inside.

She could do this. She could. She just needed time to get herself together.

Pushing off from the wall, she let her hands fall to her sides and shook out her hair, taking a deep breath. With a determined step, she followed the side street back toward the neighborhoods of Sunnydale.

From the darkness, a pair of glinting eyes watched, and moved to follow her.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Angel descended the dank stairs, for a moment vaguely reminded of the sewers of his L.A. home. It was dark down here, and a normal human wouldn't be able to see anything—in fact, a normal human probably wouldn't have descended such forbidding stairs in the first place—but Angel had no trouble making out the doorway at the bottom, or the knob that would open it.

The door creaked open, shedding dim light into the stairwell, and then he stepped inside, shutting it behind him.

Spell components crowded every shelf and wall that wasn't covered in books, and there were all sorts of strange looking antique and even ancient items laying about in disarray on the floor. The room was filled with the cloying scent of tobacco, lending it a somehow exotic feel. Angel smiled grimly and shook his head; everything was just like he remembered it, and it wasn't a very comforting feeling.

"We're closed," spoke up a nasally voice from somewhere behind the counter, its owner hidden in the shadows at the back of the shop.

"Surely you're not closed for old friends?" he inquired, the politeness in his voice verging on mockery.

Something shuffled behind the counter, and then came into the light, dull yellow illuminating its wrinkled, horrific features. The creature was small, bent and stooped, twisted like an arthritic old man, creating a harmless appearance, but sharp intelligence glimmered in its dull orange eyes, and the pure evil intent that shone there identified it as a force to be reckoned with. It blinked once as it took in his appearance, puffing gently on a pipe captured between the dry folds of its lips.

"Angel," the creature breathed, his voice seeming to caress the name.

"Sneed," he returned cordially, nodding tightly.

"Been a long time since I've seen you around here," Sneed said, the statement half-questioning. He laid his gnarled hands upon the counter and regarded Angel curiously, wary but not afraid. "Can't say as I've missed you," he added, matter-of-factly.

"And you won't," Angel said, stepping deeper into the store. "In fact, I was never here. This never happened."

"Like that, is it?" Sneed asked, then nodded, curling smoke rising all around his face. "Well, let's get this over with, then. What are you looking for?"

"I'm looking for a decoder, either a book or an item, for ancient languages."

"Huh," the creature considered, appearing to think. "Well, I'd have to know what language, of course."

Angel hesitated only an instant. "Ancient Sumerian, specifically."

The desiccated folds above Sneed's eyes rose upward, and he blinked again. "Don't know as I have anything in Ancient Sumerian. It's not very popular these days."

"Haven't you been reading the papers?" Angel asked glibly, raising his own brows. "It's back in style."

"Is it?" Sneed asked, sounding vaguely surprised. Hands still resting on the counter top, he puffed mildly on his pipe, seeming disinterested.

"It is. In fact, I hear violence is making a real comeback, too," he said, taking a step closer to the counter.

Sneed stiffened, pushing himself up from the counter slightly. "That's close enough," he warned. "Seems to me, I might have what you're looking for… might be I just can't remember where it is."

"Tell you what," Angel said with a grim smile. "You remember where it is, and I'll remember not to forget that I have a soul." He paused, considering, and then added, "Not that killing a demon like you would do it much damage."

"Alright, alright," the demon said, finally pulling the pipe from his mouth. He stepped from behind the counter and went to a shelf far down the left side of the shop, rummaging through the calamity of items piled there. Finally, he pulled a wooden box from somewhere in the heap and offered it to Angel.

"This is the best I've got, and even it's not guaranteed."

Angel took the box and opened it. Inside, resting on the velvet lining, was an ancient looking magnifying glass. Its frame was intricately molded with twisted bands of copper, and at the top of the circular glass, the bands split apart in the shape of an eye, a red crystal set in the center like an iris.

"It doesn't work so good right away. Way I understand it is, it gets better the more you use it."

Angel considered, turning the glass over in his hands. It didn't look very impressive; the glass itself was warped and cloudy, giving a blurry edge to the lines in his palm. "How long?"

Sneed shrugged, putting his pipe back in his mouth. "Don't know. Never had the occasion to use it, myself."

"And this is all you have?"

"Yep. So we got a deal, or what?"

"Put it on my tab," Angel agreed with a smirk, closing the box.

"Right," Sneed said sourly, watching Angel depart.

"I'll put it on your tab, all right," he added as the door closed, the shop empty once again.

A moment later, a door at the back of the shop opened and a vampire stepped out in full game face, his expression triumphant. The divination spell had been right.

"How was that?" Sneed asked, turning.

"Very good," the vampire answered with a twisted smile. "My mistress will be most pleased."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Faith had just about given up on finding any action to take her mind off things tonight when Angel stepped from the trees in front of her. Reflexively, she brought up her stake and he held a wooden box in front of his chest, as if to ward off her blow.

"You got a death wish, or what?" she asked angrily, lowering the stake.

"Not lately," he said, lowering the box with a faint smile.

She stood there, regarding him in confused silence for a moment. "Yeah. Well. I was just on my way back to the house, so…" She made as if to walk around him and he stepped in front of her again.

"I think I've got something that'll help with the books," he offered, holding up the wooden box again.

"Good for you," she replied snidely, trying to step around him again.

"Hungry?" He insinuated himself between her and her intended path again.

Her eyes flashed dark anger, threatening for a moment, and then one corner of her mouth quirked in a hard smile. "A little," she allowed. "You got an all-night diner in that box?" she asked, inclining her head toward it.

"No, but I think there's one around here somewhere. Care to join me?"

She backed off a step and her posture went defensive again, eyes hard and speculative, as if she were wary of the offer. "I thought you were doing the Secret Agent Man thing?"

"I don't think we have to worry about being seen. Most creatures of the night avoid diners like the plague." He chuckled. "Can't stand the smell of grease."

"But you can?" she asked dubiously.

"I survived hell," he said with a shrug. "It can't be worse than that."

"Guess we'll see," she said, voice non-committal, eyes mistrustful, not quite willing to forgive him yet.

He pretended not to notice her reticence, stepping aside and motioning for her to walk ahead of him. "Lead the way."

After a moment of debate, she did.

"So anywhere I want?" she asked, her voice holding a note of mischief.

"As long as it's not the Doublemeat Palace," he amended. "That place gives me the creeps."

She gave him a strange, sidelong glance, then chuckled, shaking her head. "Wus."

"Yeah," he agreed, as if that were never a question.

She laughed and their voices faded, lapsing into a comfortable rhythm of conversation as they made their way back downtown.


	8. VISITATIONS

CHAPTER 8: VISITATIONS

"I think it's dark and it looks like rain"  
You said  
"And the wind is blowing like it's the end of the world"  
You said  
"And it's so cold  
It's like the cold if you were dead"  
And then you smiled  
For a second

~Plainsong, The Cure

-

 

Faith lay dreaming; gazing at the portal in her mind's eye through calm eyes, the wind rushing in her ears and through her hair, conscious of every breath she drew, aware of the very beating of her heart. This was a moment outside of time, outside of space, and she existed not just here, but in a thousand other worlds, with a thousand other names and a thousand other lives, and in that moment, she knew them all, each of them converging, meshing, overlapping until they were one. As reality warped and twisted around her, she realized that the axis of all possible worlds spun upon this moment, and the Gods themselves trembled as they pondered its significance, holding their collective breath as they waited for the balance of Fate's scales to tip.

She leaped into the center of the portal's roaring brightness… and as she fell she felt the years of heartache and suffering strip and peel away from her like soiled garments, dispersing the confusion that crowded her mind and clouded her heart, discarding them on the wind until she was stripped to the very core of her essence and awareness. Her thoughts were like quicksilver, bright and shining rainbows of color and sound, so clear and beautiful now, reduced to their purest, lightest form. Everything was so clear, so crisp, the lines and curves of the world around her standing out with sharp detail, the colors swirling with vivid hues no human eye could ever perceive.

And then the portal took her.

The world exploded with brilliant white light, and it was as it had been every time before, the portal embracing her essence like a lover, insistently demanding and insatiable… but this time, the dream did not end there. This time, she felt the portal release her, falling away behind her as she spiraled toward the earth like an angel cast from the heavens. She hit solid ground with bone crunching impact… but she couldn't feel it… she couldn't feel anything anymore. Her thoughts were set free, adrift as if on the wind, and she let it carry her away.

There was peace here, warmth, and silence. Slowly she became aware again, as if her thoughts gathered themselves into form, and she lay on her back, arms crossed over her chest, eyes closed. Inside her form, her thoughts drifted like smoke on a hazy summer afternoon, languid and random, gentle and sweet, and she thought she might let them carry her away again. She could hear voices in the distance, singing in beautiful chorus, calling her to them…

"Return!" a voice shouted, and she felt a hard snap inside herself as if the voice had made her solid by its very command, jolting awake, eyes flying open.

She was standing in a white marble room that seemed both large and small all at once, lit by a strange glow that emanated from the walls themselves, somehow dim and blinding at the same time, as if the whole world had been captured on film that was over-exposed. The floor felt smooth and warm against her feet, which were bare, and she looked down, seeing herself wrapped in gauzy black material that stood out in such sharp contrast to everything else that it almost hurt her eyes to look at it. She blinked to clear the pain and looked up—and the world flickered like the flash bulb of a camera, cascading in a riot of images so fast she couldn't comprehend them.

She blinked again and the room returned to normal, as normal as these four white walls could look, and she thought that it seemed very like a tomb in here, as devoid of life and even more silent. It was so silent that the silence itself seemed a sound; a dull roaring in her ears that reminded her of the wind from the portal.

"Return!" the voice shouted again, this time much closer.

Startled, she blinked and turned—

The world seemed to shift, shimmering, sliding, edges overlapping and finally clicking into place. In the center of the room there was now a high marble slab, and atop it lay a delicate woman, her features pale and still as the stone she rested against, flaxen hair shining like a halo surrounding her face.

Buffy.

Mesmerized, Faith took a shuffling step toward her. Swathed in white gauze that streamed from the altar, Buffy looked like a fragile china doll, posed with her arms folded over her chest, eyes closed as if in sleep. Faith took another step closer, unable to help herself, feet treading upon polished stone without so much as a whisper. She reached Buffy's side, and stretched out one hand, at once fascinated and saddened as she touched the cold, unyielding skin. Faith could see that Buffy's chest did not rise or fall with breath, and she was as white, as silent and as solemn as everything else in the room.

Quiet… so very quiet…

A chill passed through her body and she shuddered with foreboding. Buffy's skin felt like ice beneath her fingertips, the cold numbing her fingers and spreading up her forearm with prickly tendrils, snaking through her muscles and digging into bone. She tried to pull her hand away, but she was moving so slow—too slow—as if her hand were a leaden weight she could barely lift. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, pumping fear and sudden adrenaline—

Buffy's eyes popped open, and they were as cold and dead as her body appeared, their hazel depths now black as night. She sat up mechanically; unnaturally smooth, as if she were a puppet pulled by a string, and turned her white, empty face toward Faith.

Frantic, Faith tried to back away, but her legs would not obey, and she stood rooted to the spot, frozen by her terror. Buffy's arms shot out, grabbing Faith roughly by the shoulders, and Faith could feel the numbing cold of those fingers sink into her flesh like icicles, freezing her in place, sapping her of her will to move, seeming to drain her of her very life. With flat, forsaken eyes, Buffy looked at Faith, and Faith could see nothing in those empty black holes except her own reflection.

"It was me. I was the one," Buffy said, her voice as distant and cold as her eyes. "My blood." As Faith watched in horror, the twin puncture scars on Buffy's neck opened like tiny mouths and began to bleed, rich vibrant red against pale white flesh.

Unable to tear her gaze from the horrible visage, Faith squeezed her eyes shut—and the world shifted, sliding sideways again, the hands on her shoulders simply ceasing to exist.

She blinked. Buffy sat atop the marble slab, her hands pressed against her chest, head bowed. She was still swathed in gauze—but now her skin was vibrant, her eyes alive with emotion.

"You missed the party," she said sadly, looking up at Faith with doe-eyes. Then she looked back down at herself and shook her head. "They left this." Her hands trembled as she lifted them, and cupped in her palms was a human heart, still steaming, still beating, blood pumping uselessly into her hands and down her wrists in crimson rivulets. Faith could see the blood pouring through the pale, flimsy cloth covering Buffy's chest, the dark stain spreading rapidly, could see the gaping wound so black and harsh against the pink of her flesh. She pushed the bloody trophy out toward Faith as if offering it in supplication.

"Please. You take it," she said almost desperately.

No! Faith wanted to scream, to shout, to push this away, but she had no voice, no words, and she could only shut her eyes and shake her head in denial.

"Return!" the voice commanded, so loudly that her eardrums recoiled from the sound.

She spun in surprise—

Buffy stood there, her face twisted in a mask of animal rage and hatred so potent that Faith stumbled backward. Buffy reached out and grabbed her shoulders again, and Faith could feel the bones snap and splinter beneath the crushing grip. Buffy pulled her up eye-to-eye, and grinned, her incisors lengthening into razor sharp points, mouth stretching inhumanly wide, eyes brightening with a sickly yellow glow. Her features ran and melted as if they had been cast in wax, trading one mask for another, this one all too familiar.

"You should have killed me," Buffy said, laughing, and then she crushed Faith against her in a ruthless hug.

Faith tried to cry out, but her throat locked against the scream, and there was nothing she could do as she felt sharp teeth pierce the tender skin of her neck, burning like fire. At first there was nothing but the pain, and then, slowly, the sensation of being drained, her consciousness fading as her mind spun like leaves tossed on the wind. At last she fell to the smooth marble floor and lay there, paralyzed, feeling the last of her lifeblood spill from her neck as death enveloped her in its final embrace.

The last thing she saw was Buffy's hideous vampire face thrown back in maniacal laughter.

Gasping, Faith woke, sitting bolt upright in her bed. Disoriented, she grabbed at her throat, feeling for the wounds she still sensed were there, so panicked that it took her almost a full minute before she realized the skin was smooth and unbroken. At length, her breathing slowed, and she became aware of her surroundings, of the afternoon sunshine that filtered in through the old windows, filling her with a sense of comfort and reality.

At last, she fell back against her pillow and sighed, pressing her hands against her face. She closed her eyes, trying to push the dream from her mind, and saw nothing except Buffy's face, contorted with vampiric hunger.

So much for sleep, she thought, and pushed herself up from the bed.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Faith?" Beatrice's voice stopped her on her way out the door.

She felt her stomach tighten with apprehension, a sinking feeling of dread filling her. They'd gotten on okay since their argument after her first night of patrol—mostly through lack of communication beyond Slayer/Watcher necessity—but she had a feeling this wasn't going to go well. Raising her shoulders and bracing herself, she turned to see the petite Watcher emerge from the hall, fresh and immaculate looking as always, icy blue eyes inquisitive as she regarded her charge.

"It's a little early for patrol, isn't it?" she asked dubiously, pointedly looking out the half-open door up at the sunny sky.

"I thought I'd... ya know, make a few stops," Faith said off-handedly, shrugging with one shoulder.

"Without letting me know?" Beatrice asked, her expression making her displeasure clear, though her voice was polite enough.

"I don't have to report my every move to you, do I?" Faith asked sharply, her voice rising in challenge.

"Actually," the Watcher smiled slightly, "you do."

Faith raised her brows at the older woman, as if impressed and surprised by her reply. "Really?" She shifted her weight from one hip to the other, straightening her stance and planting her feet, folding her arms over her chest. "Gonna make me?"

Beatrice smirked, shaking her head. "If you were as tough as you pretend, you would've walked out the door already."

Faith dropped her arms and blinked in true surprise this time.

"I can't make you do anything," Beatrice continued, her smirk still lingering. "But I can tell you that it's probably in your best interest to be on my side... I am your Watcher, after all, and we do have to work together. It's imperative that I know where you are, in case something should happen."

"Whatever."

Unimpressed, Faith turned as if to walk away and Beatrice spoke up more loudly. "Don't make the mistake of thinking 'Angel' will be around forever. You can't depend on that."

Faith stopped.

"Of course I know," she replied to Faith's unasked question. "You don't really think me so daft, do you?"

She walked around Faith onto the porch, turning to face her.

"Eventually he's going to go back to his life, such as it may be, and then who will you turn to? Who will be on your side then?"

Faith turned her face aside, jaw set angrily. "Angel won't leave."

"Why not?" Beatrice asked reasonably. "Is he in love with you?" She studied Faith's expression and shook her head once, answering her own question aloud. "No…" Frowning, she considered, and asked, "Sleeping together, then?"

Faith snapped her head around, looking at the older woman in surprise, not quite believing she'd had the audacity to ask. They weren't, of course, but still… "Go Ms. H!" she commented in appreciation.

"You've had so many men… haven't you learned yet?" she asked softly, as if to herself. Then, more severely, "I would think you'd know better than that, Faith. Men are nothing but a distraction in your line of work. I can understand the occasional dalliance, but really, what do you think could come of it? It's not as if he could ever make you happy, even if you had the time to spare for such indulgences."

Faith laughed bitterly and shook her head. "You really don't have a clue, do you?"

"I know that you've been hurt before, Faith. I know that there's no one who has stood by your side in your whole life—no one who was good for you," she corrected, cutting off Faith's nasty reply. "And I know that eventually, Angel will leave… with or without his soul intact. It can't end any other way."

Faith looked down and said nothing.

"You need to make some decisions about your allegiances, now. You've barely been back on patrol for two weeks, and only two and a half out of prison. You have your whole life ahead of you… now is the time to ground yourself and get things in order."

"Why do you care?" Faith spat angrily, eyes flashing.

"Have you asked yourself why Angel cares?"

"That's what he does! He helps people!"

"Yes. People. I help the Slayer. That's what I do."

"I thought you weren't into the 'touchy-feely' stuff?" Faith mocked.

"I don't believe we have to have a 'Kodak moment' for me to be an excellent teacher, or to back you up when you need help. I will always be here for you to rely on, Faith. That is the nature of the relationship between Watcher and Slayer."

Faith looked at her uncertainly, eyes flickering to Beatrice's face and away, torn. Finally she ran a hand through her hair and shouldered her way around the smaller woman, striding angrily past.

Beatrice turned to watch her go, saying nothing further.

Faith hesitated on the walkway from the house, and without turning, she called back, "I'll be back after patrol." Then, with more certainty, she resumed her fast, angry pace away from the house.

Beatrice supposed it was a start.

* * * * * * * * * * *

She passed the day mindlessly browsing the downtown Sunnydale shops, hardly seeing the items she passed. Everything Ms. H had said reflected her own fears about Angel, and she didn't really want to think about it all too closely.

On a whim, she decided to check out some of the obscure bookstores in town, thinking she might find out some information about the recent thefts. It would be something to pass the time, anyway.

There were a truly staggering number of "rare" and "antique" bookstores in Sunnydale, and given most of these stores written content, plus the fact that most of them stocked odd items in jars, like sulfur, mushrooms and crow's feet, one had to wonder how the locals remained ignorant of their proximity to mystical badness. After browsing a few of them, it seemed wicked obvious to her, but then, she was on the inside track.

She had found one shop that seemed more interesting and diverse than the others, and was perusing a shelf filled with spell books, pondering them with rapt curiosity, when she heard a familiar voice beyond the cover of the shelves.

"You're sure you don't have one?" the voice asked, sounding desperate.

Faith instantly backed further down the aisle she was browsing, her posture defensive, animal-like, reacting on pure instinct. Reaching out, she grabbed hold of one of the shelves to steady herself and squeezed, the wood crackling beneath her hand.

"No," she heard the shopkeeper answer. "In fact, I think you'll be pretty hard pressed to find one of those anywhere. Pretty obscure item, considering that one has to break it to complete the spell."

"It's really important," the familiar voice pressed, almost begging.

Faith felt sudden hatred rise up like fire, clenching in a vise-like grip around her stomach, so intense that for a moment she thought she might vomit right there on the worn carpet. Every neuron in her brain screamed at her to move, to run away, to get out of there, but there was no way she could leave without passing in sight of the counter.

She breathed deep, trying to calm herself, and slowly, ever so slowly, she crept forward to the edge of the shelf, her heart thundering in her ears. She blocked out the insistent pounding, focusing her super-human hearing on the voices beyond, and eased her head around the shelf.

"I'm sure it is," the shopkeeper was saying, sounding very apologetic, and now Faith could see her, a woman in her mid-forties or so, thin and pretty for her age, dressed in new-age flowing clothing.

She eased her head a little further out, and slowly, the customer came into view over the plane of the bookshelf. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment, then thudded explosively in a rapid beat, adrenaline rushing through her.

Willow.

"Is there anywhere else I can try?" the witch asked, and even from where Faith stood, over twenty feet away, she could see she was distressed.

She ducked back into the aisle and stood, pressing her back against the bookshelf, forcing herself to breathe quietly.

Just Willow, her brain insisted. No big. She's not even that powerful of a witch. But her heart hammered insistently, and she knew it was more than worry of whether or not she could take the girl in a fight.

All the sins of her past loomed up before her, threatening to crush her in a shattering tidal wave. Dimly, she could hear the shopkeeper's voice responding, but she was beyond hearing the words.

Willow, pinned in her grasp with Faith's knife to her throat. Willow, who'd told her off righteously when she should have been begging for her life. Willow, who'd made it completely clear just how far Faith had fallen from the Scoobies grace. Willow, who'd hated her more than any of them.

She closed her eyes against the images that paraded through her mind, hand going instinctively to the stake at the small of her back. Pulling it free, she clenched it in her hand, the weapon providing her with a small sense of comfort that served to help clear her mind a little. At least she wasn't completely defenseless.

But then… it wasn't really physical offense she was worried about, was it?

She gritted her teeth and squeezed the stake so hard that it might have snapped had it not been so well crafted. What the hell was wrong with her, anyway? What was she afraid of? She was the Slayer, after all, imbued with supernatural strength and power far beyond other humans. Even with her spells, Faith doubted Willow could be a match for her… so what was it then?

The answers came, and their truth hurt far more than any physical pain she'd ever endured.

Hatred. Judgment. The fear that everything Willow believed about her might be true. Maybe the world would be better off if she'd stayed in her coma, or if she'd died when Buffy stabbed her, or rotted in prison forever. Isn't that why Faith had wanted to kill her, after all? If you kill the judge and jury, then there can't be a verdict. Somehow, Willow represented everything that had been evil and wrong in Faith, even more than Buffy had, and the urge to take her out was so overwhelming, she could scarcely see beyond it.

She forced her teeth apart and wedged her tongue between, biting down hard. The blood came, coppery and thin, the pain like needles in her mind, and she forced herself to focus, to think, dammit, think!

What were her options?

Her impulse was so strong she could see it vividly… stepping from behind the bookshelf and launching her stake at Willow, Slayer strength driving it deep into her breast. Willow gasping for air on the floor of the shop, blood frothing at her lips, her eyes imploring Faith for mercy as she stood over her, watching her die with cold delight. Willow, breathing her last as the horrified shopkeeper looked on, one hand plastered over her mouth in silent horror. Then with calm eyes, she would turn on the shopkeeper with her bare hands and choke the life from her—

No! She couldn't. She wouldn't.

Think!

She saw herself stepping from behind the shelf, calling a greeting to the witch, presenting herself peacefully. She saw herself trying to speak of change and understanding, of truth and humility, of forgiveness and second chances… of hope and dreams. She saw Willow raise her hands and call out to whatever gods or goddesses she needed, and felt herself torn and shattered, a broken bag of bones thrown against the wall of the shop, Willow's triumphant, mocking expression the last thing she saw with her dimming vision…

Or…

She could stand here like a frightened deer in headlights forever, and wait for the moment to pass.

Maybe Willow would understand… and she wouldn't really try to kill Faith… would she? When all was said and done, she was still Willow, still one of the good guys. Most likely Willow would throw a defensive spell and run for it while Faith was down. But suppose there was the off chance that Willow actually would listen to her… what would she say? What did she expect? Understanding? Forgiveness?

She wavered on the edge of the cliff, struggling against her better judgment, against her need to survive. It didn't matter, she decided at last. Whatever the outcome, she had to face this.

She shoved the stake back into its resting place, clenching her hands into fists, and stepped around the bookshelf, steeling herself—

The shopkeeper looked up at her inquisitively. "Can I help you?"

Willow was gone.

Lost, Faith focused on the shopkeeper, her expression caught somewhere between frustration and relief. "No," she answered after a long pause. Turning, she made her way out of the shop. "I don't think anyone can help me," she muttered under her breath, pushing out the door.

* * * * * * * * * * *

She killed three vampires that night, her battles fueled by her impotent anger against the day.

Curious, calculating eyes watched it all from a distance.

She didn't go to see Angel that night. Or the next.


	9. CLOSER

CHAPTER 9: CLOSER

The angry boy, a bit too insane,  
Icing over a secret pain,  
You know you don't belong,  
You're the first to fight; you're way too loud,  
You're the flash of light, on a burial shroud,  
I know something's wrong,  
Well everyone I know has got a reason,  
To say,  
put the past away

~Jumper, Third Eye Blind

-

 

Willow looked around at the small group gathered together in Xander's apartment, feeling her stomach tighten in anticipation, a small tingle of excitement and apprehension growing within, and she smiled wryly at the old familiar feeling of nervousness. She didn't feel it very often these days, but when she was younger it had been her constant companion, her ever-present nemesis, always getting in her way and making her trip over her own tongue. Taking a deep breath, she collected her wits and steeled her nerve, willing her body to relax, determined not to babble her way through this. She had to stay strong for all of them.

"We haven't been able to find the Buffy-bot anywhere," she began, her eyes touching on each of them as she spoke. "We're going to have to give her up for lost."

"Can't say I'm sorry about that," Xander said, leaning back on the couch. His eyes were flat, expressionless save for the glimmer of sarcasm … he hadn't been handling this very well. Willow was actually surprised by that. She'd thought Xander would want Buffy back more than any of them, but so far he had been the toughest opposition in the group.

She fixed him with a look of annoyance, and then looked down again at the glass of the coffee table. "I think I've found a spell," she said quietly, her voice trembling despite her resolve.

Everyone stilled, freezing in place, seemingly shocked into silence. For a moment, it seemed no one even breathed… then, Xander sat forward, his eyes questioning, and Anya closed her fashion magazine, deep brown eyes focusing on Willow for the first time. Only Tara sat quietly, her eyes seemingly glued to the floor.

"A… a spell?" Xander asked, licking his suddenly dry lips.

Willow nodded, not trusting herself to speak just yet.

"Then… we're ready? To do this?" he asked nervously.

She frowned, knowing she didn't have the answer he and the others would want. "No…" she began hesitantly. "Actually, I've found two spells. One is heavy on the bargaining, but relatively safe. The other is…less safe…"

"Then I'm going with door number one," Xander quipped sardonically.

"It's not that easy," Willow hedged, her shoulders tightening and seeming to shrink.

"Then we don't do it."

"We  _have_  to do it."

"Will," he said, the very word a plea. Hesitating, he forced himself to look at her, knowing he had to say something. "If there's a new Slayer—"

"There will always be a new Slayer," she countered angrily. "There's only one Buffy."

"I know," he said softly, trying to calm her. "And I love her as much as you do. But it just doesn't seem right."

"So if it's safe, then we do it, but the slightest bit of risk and you're running for the door?" she demanded hotly.

"Yes—no!" He sighed, the confusion in him growing. "I don't know."

Silence reigned for a moment, resentment festering in its presence, and then Tara spoke up softly, her voice soothing the moment like a cool cloth against fever. "Tell us about the spells."

Disconcerted, Willow nodded, trying to re-gather her thoughts. This wasn't going at all like she'd planned… she'd barely even gotten out of the gate and already Xander was trying to shut her down. Closing her eyes and pressing her lips together, she forced her anger back into the deep well of her mind, burying it with all the other slights and hurts she'd accumulated over the years. It went with reluctance, but it went, and a moment later, she regained her train of thought.

"The safer spell requires a ritual which will test the caster—me—to the limits of endurance. If I'm found worthy, the request will be granted and Buffy will be returned."

"That doesn't sound very safe," Xander commented. "What if your endurance comes up short?"

"It won't," she said sternly, meeting his gaze fiercely. Then she looked away, seemingly wistful. "But it doesn't matter… I don't have all the components the spell requires."

"What do you need?" Anya asked. She was as uncertain as Xander about casting a spell of this sort—more so, even, since she'd seen the outcome of a few—but when it came to supplying magical items, she took pride in being a procurer of the rare and difficult to come by.

"An Urn of Osiris," Willow replied sullenly.

"Oh," Anya said knowingly. "So much for that. What's the other spell?"

"It's much simpler, it doesn't require anything difficult… it's just…" Willow faltered, scrunching up her courage. "Just… dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Xander asked abruptly, his voice sounding panicky. "Are we talking 'Mission Impossible' dangerous, or 'Night of the Living Dead' dangerous?"

She took a deep breath. "The spell requires that each of us give up a portion of our own life-essence in order to give life to the person being resurrected. Kinda—kinda like giving blood," she added lamely, not able to look at any of them.

"That sounds like both, with a little Hellraiser thrown in and no popcorn," Xander retorted darkly.

"Xander—"

"No!" he exclaimed loudly, leaping up from the couch. "I'm not letting my soul get siphoned off like gasoline! This is crazy, Willow!"

"It's only a little, Xander," she pleaded. "And it's temporary. Like blood. It replenishes itself."

"Oh, so I'll only be a little soulless! That's comforting. That puts me somewhere just above N'sync on the evolutionary ladder."

Anya blinked at him in confusion. "But you like N'sy-"

"Anya, important moment here!" he interrupted loudly and frantically.

Willow looked away, her heart heavy. "I need all of you for this to work. I need everyone behind it and willing one-hundred percent."

"Hey, here's a novel idea," Xander said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "Why don't we let the new Slayer do her job and let Buffy rest in peace? I say she's earned it."

"She's not at peace, Xander," Willow sniped back, her eyes falling on him accusingly. "She fell through a portal that was the doorway to thousands of worlds. Her soul is probably trapped in one of them, or in some other horrible place."

"Like a world ruled by bunnies?" Anya asked fretfully.

"Like hell," Willow answered, her face and voice solemn.

"There could be a world ruled by bunnies," Anya defended herself, frowning, mistaking Willow's answer for a contradiction.

"No. I meant Buffy could  _be_  in a place like hell," Willow said slowly, painstakingly pronouncing every syllable.

Xander sighed and fell back on the couch, covering his face with his hands. "Okay." He sat up, letting his hands slide down his face to grab his cheeks, dragging the skin down with them and exposing his lower eyelids. "Okay."

"I—I could look for an Urn," Anya spoke up after a moment. Then she shrugged, going on matter-of-factly, "After all, someone on e-bay sold a Holy Grail a few weeks back, so it's possible an Urn could turn up."

"An, honey, there's only one Holy Grail."

"Oh please," Anya said with a snort. "You think the ancient's didn't know the value of mass production?"

"Finding an Urn will take time," Willow tried one last time, fidgeting uncomfortably.

"I don't think Buffy's going anywhere," Xander countered with dark humor.

Willow looked back at him, their eyes locking in silent communication for a long moment. She'd known him all her life, and she knew enough to know when he wouldn't be pushed. She didn't like it—in fact, she  _hated_  it. After all, hadn't they put her in charge? Didn't they trust her judgment? She knew what they needed to do… unfortunately, she needed all of them to back her up on it in order for it to work, and she could see that just wasn't going to happen. Not right now, anyway.

"Okay," she agreed finally, reluctantly, throwing up her hands. "If you're all opposed to the spell, I guess we'll have to try the Urn or something else."

"I just love it when you're forceful, honey," Anya said, beaming at Xander. "Are we done here?" she asked, looking at Willow. "Because I'd like to take Xander away to the bedroom now. We just got these leather—"

"Anya…" Xander said, holding his head in his hands.

"What?" Anya appeared confused. "They're lesbians. They probably use sexual aides all the time, right?" She looked at Willow and Tara with sincere curiosity.

Tara looked up and smiled faintly.

"We were just, uh, leaving, anyway," Willow said uncomfortably, rising quickly to her feet. Anya's candor usually annoyed her, but tonight she was glad to have an excuse to be away from the apartment. Her plans had all fallen apart, despite her careful calculating, and she needed time to think.

There was part of her that agreed with Xander, but that part was buried deep beneath another part of herself… the part that knew the longer they waited to bring Buffy back, the more chance they had of losing her forever.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Angel sat before the lighted fireplace, brow creased in concentration, book balanced carefully on his lap. He had spent most of the last few days poring over the ancient texts, and finally, he was beginning to decipher the language.

The magnifying glass he'd gotten from Sneed was helping; the language appeared to be a strange derivative of Sumerian, but between his ignorance of the dialect and the slow learning curve inherent in the item, it was taking more time to puzzle it out than he would have liked. Still, the symbols were finally beginning to make some sense to him… and he didn't like what he was reading, at all.

The door of the mansion creaked as it opened and he glanced up, already knowing who he would see.

"Hey, Angel," Faith called as she kicked the door shut behind her without turning. "How's the required reading?" she asked as she strolled up to him.

"It's… well…" He glanced at the text again, uncertain. "I'm not sure, yet," he hedged.

"Uh huh," she said, not believing a word. Crouching down before him she rocked back on her heels, glanced at the book and then back up at him. "So… what's it say? Great and terrible evil? The end of the world? Clearance: all items must go?"

"Nothing that exciting," he said, smirking. His eyes fell upon the pages of the book, and he seemed hesitant to continue. "All I can make out so far is that this book pertains to ancient rituals that tie into very powerful spells."

"Well, that's informative," she said with a dismissive toss of her head.

"The only other thing I can get is that all of these rituals revolve around blood and other life-essences… pretty heavy stuff."

"Blood?" she asked, frowning, suddenly reminded of her recent dream. She'd dreamed of the portal many times in the last month, but this past week she'd dreamt of Buffy twice more since the first time, and the dreams—nightmares, really—were only getting worse... and bloodier. She was getting pretty close to giving up on trying to sleep just to escape their terrifying grasp.

"Does that mean something to you?" Angel asked, studying her troubled expression.

Faith pushed to her feet and stood, shrugging with a cocky slant of her shoulders. "No," she said quickly, glancing at him and then away. "Why should it?"

Angel looked at her a moment longer, then set the book aside, giving her his full attention. It seemed to him as if she were challenging him, daring him to push her to talk about whatever it was she didn't want to talk about… almost as if she wanted him to. She'd been pulling away from him ever since the first night he'd gone with her on patrol, and lately she was beginning to provoke things to confrontation between them more often than not.

"If we're going to do this," he said quietly, "we're going to have to trust each other."

"Do what?" she asked, her voice taking on a hard edge. Was he saying he didn't trust her?

"You know."

All the tension, all the doubts, all the recriminations of the last few weeks bore down on her with all their weight, and she felt something snap inside her.

She tilted her head at him challengingly, dark eyes glittering like ice. "You mean this 'Slayer and Vampire Save the World Together' thing?" She gave a bitter laugh. "Come on, Angel, aren't you sick of that old routine yet?"

He said nothing, merely looking at her.

"You don't have to play the redeemer role anymore, Angel. You don't have to pretend to help me so you can feel better about a bunch of people you killed in another life that wasn't even yours." Seeing his expression, she sneered. "Aw, what's the matter? Did I spoil your fun? Ruin your little game?" She flung the words at him, sharp as a knife, meant to cut to the bone.

"This isn't a game," he said quietly, his eyes shadowed, deep hollows of black beneath his brows.

"Everything's a game," she contradicted with violent emphasis. "And if you're not here to indulge your Savior Complex…" she gave him a cruel smile, "…it must be to indulge your Slayer Fetish."

He gave a quiet snort of disbelief and turned his head aside.

"Why don't we just cut to the chase," she said, her voice taunting as she stepped toward him, tugging at the collar of her shirt, revealing the curving swell of her breast. "We can do it right here on the floor and get it over with! Then you can go back to L.A. and get on with your—"

He rose from the chair and grabbed her by the wrists so fast that she barely had time to register what had happened. His face was close enough to hers that she could have kissed him, and for a moment, she thought he was going to take her up on her offer—then he pulled her hand away from her collar, his eyes seeming to burn with intensity as they bore into hers.

"You know that's not why I'm here." His eyes flickered back and forth, searching hers for understanding. After a moment, he relaxed his grip on her and shook his head, still looking at her. "I know you want to try and sabotage everything, to push away anyone who might get close enough to hurt you… but you can't drive me away, Faith, no matter how hard you try."

She tore her gaze from his and spun away, wrenching her wrists from his hands. Still angry, she threw her arms over her chest, hugging herself as she paced away from him.

"Bet you're just  _loving_  this," she spat contemptuously. "Saving me from myself… is  _that_  how you get your rocks off?"

"I can't save you from yourself, Faith. You're the only one who can do that."

"You know, people keep  _saying_  that!" her voice was sharp with anger and sarcasm. "Funny. I don't see any of you telling me  _how_  to do it."

"That's because you have to figure that part out for yourself, too."

"Great." She uttered an exasperated, bitter chuckle and shook her head.

He took a step toward her. "That doesn't mean I can't help you, or be there for you. I can, and I will."

"Right." She laughed again, still shaking her head and looked skyward, as if she were helpless, as if she were at a loss. He saw her shoulders lower, heard her sigh. "Why do you do it, Angel? It can't be the money," she said cynically, her back still to him.

"It's what I do," he said simply, and she could almost hear him shrug.

"Every good deed is its own reward?" she asked, sarcastically.

"That's what my mother used to say."

She snorted and rolled her eyes moving toward the door and reaching for the handle—

"Before I killed her."

She hesitated, her hand falling away from the knob.

"What did the blood make you think about, Faith?" he asked softly.

She shook her head, started to say something, stopped, put her hand on the knob, and paused again. "Dying," she said, letting the silence hang between them for a moment, then she turned the knob and went out into the night.

Steely eyes followed her.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The vamps had gotten the drop on her.

She'd been coming off one of the side streets, turning the corner to a row of shops, and a door had flown open into her face, sending her stumbling backward. That vamp had hardly paused; carrying several books in its arms, it had glanced down at her and taken off running in the other direction. She'd bounced to her feet, confident she had it, when the vamp that'd been playing lookout slammed into her from behind. She'd gotten tangled up in its clothing, and it took precious moments for her to stake it. By then, the other four vamps had exited the shop and were circling her like wary animals, edging forward then back, each of them antsy for the other to make the first move.

She'd launched her stake at one and spun to kick another, the other two lunging for her. She heard her first target disintegrate with a satisfying pop and sent the second staggering back several paces to land on its butt. She'd reached to the small of her back for her second stake, preparing to leap on the downed vamp—

A hand had closed around her seeking arm like an iron band, superhuman strength yanking it up between her shoulder blades so hard that she'd heard something in her shoulder crack. The world had wavered red for an instant, and then she'd reached for the stake with her other hand, drawing it forth and stabbing out to the side on instinct. The vamp that had been coming up beside her had squealed in fury and then turned to ash. She'd been about to launch the stake at the vamp getting up off the ground, but the one holding her had recovered from the surprise of her lightning quick reflex, and he'd clamped his other hand around her wrist, squeezing until she couldn't hold the wooden shaft anymore. With a grimace of pain she'd let go and heard it clatter to the sidewalk, and there was no time to mourn its loss, because the vampire she'd kicked was coming up on her fast.

Both arms now pinned behind her back, she tried to kick him again, but he sidestepped, fanged maw splitting in a mocking grin. Cautiously, he came up beside her, distorted face perilously close to hers, and she could smell the rank odor of old blood as it spoke.

"So you're the new Slayer," he said, looking her up and down. "I heard you were tough. Don't look like much to me…. Pretty though. Maybe I'll keep your head for a trophy when I'm done." He gave her a lewd smile, then opened his jaws wide, incisors easing forward…

She struggled wildly against her captor, kicking backward with her feet and thrashing her head violently back and forth.

The vampire reached out and grabbed her face between its hands, stilling her motion and turning her head to the side. "Now, now," he said, looking her right in the eye. "You don't—"

She head butted him as hard as she could. She heard the sharp crunch as their foreheads met, then—surprisingly—the familiar pop of rushing air behind her, and suddenly she was free.

Instantly she dropped to the ground, grabbing the stake as she rolled to the side. She had barely risen to her feet when she heard another pop, and the final vampire vaporized.

"Angel!" she exclaimed in surprise, seeing his trench coated form still kneeling where he'd killed the vampire. "I thought you were…" she trailed off as he rose to his feet and turned to look at her.

It wasn't Angel.


	10. IMPACT

CHAPTER 10: IMPACT

We sit in the same room  
Side by side  
I give you the wrong lines  
Feed you

Look into my eyes  
We both smile  
I could kill you  
Without trying

That's accuracy  
Practice all day for accuracy

Mirror mirror on the wall...

~Accuracy, The Cure

-

 

"A big stupid poof with even stupider hair?" the man asked with a smirk, finishing her sentence.

She took a step back, uncertain. He looked familiar, and he had probably saved her life… but who…?

The memory clicked into place with sudden certainty. "I remember you. William the Bloody," she said with a shake of her head. "I'll be damned. Wow, you just never know what's gonna happen next around here." She folded her arms over her chest and grinned.

His eyes narrowed, fixing on her intently, suddenly suspicious. "Have we met, luv?"

"Once," she said shortly, deciding it would be too difficult to explain, not to mention much more fun to keep him guessing. "So!" She put her hands on her hips and nodded toward him. "I guess that chip's really working out for you, huh? Turned to killing your own kind. Hunh. And they said electro-shock therapy didn't work."

He edged forward, the suspicion spreading from his eyes to permeate his entire posture. "How do you…?" He stopped, looked at her again, rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Wait a minute," he said, realization dawning. The transformation was startling, his eyes brightening with understanding and just a touch of gloating. "I know you." She could hear the bitter irony creeping into his tone. "You're Faith. Bloody  _hell_. And here I thought you were a  _new_  Slayer."

"Wow. You've heard of me. I'm impressed," she remarked with disinterested, biting sarcasm.

"Heard of you? Oh, I've heard all about  _you_ , luv," he said with a cynical laugh.

Thrusting his hands in the pockets of his coat he walked up to her, surveying her with a tilt of his head, the scrutiny of his gaze unsettling her. Shifting her stance, she tightened her grip on her stake.

"Yeah, well, good for you," she said tightly, her eyes hardening. She wondered what he knew,  _how_  he knew it… from the tone of his voice, none of it was good. "Guess we can skip the pleasantries, then."

"Right down to business then, is it?" he asked, looking pleased and amused. He nodded his approval, giving her a slight smile. "I like that in a gal."

"Know what I like in a vamp? Wood," she said, stepping up to him and lifting her stake.

He raised his brows and tilted his head back, looking at her as if he were offended. "I just saved your life," he said, sounding indignant.

"Right," she scoffed, half-laughing. "I totally had it under control."

"Oh, and I suppose you were going to use the new holes in your neck for better ventilation?" he asked snidely.

Annoyed, she shifted her shoulders and glared at him. "I don't have time for this. There are  _real_  threats wandering the streets out here. You know, the kind that can actually  _hurt_  people?" she asked pointedly, her voice dripping sarcasm.

He blinked, looking baffled, then snorted and shook his head. "You're a right bitch, aren't you? Fine. Go on, then. Get yourself killed," he dismissed her with a derisive wave of his hand.

After a moment's hesitation, she sheathed her stake, gave him a disgusted look and then pushed past him, following the direction the vampire with the books had gone.

"Oh, by the way…"

She spun, something in the tone of his voice making her turn, body suddenly taut, coiled and ready to spring. She saw several objects flying through the air at her and reached out with her arms, managing to catch two of them on instinct alone. The other two hit the ground with solid thuds, and looking down, she realized they were old books.

"I killed the other one before I came back to… 'not help' you." He lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. "Good luck figuring out what they wanted 'em for," he said in a tone of voice that suggested she'd have better luck trying to sprout wings.

Slowly, she looked up from the books at him, eyes thoughtful. Something about the way he spoke… the way he'd said that… the way he knew that the books were important…

"You know something about this, don't you?" It was barely even a question, she was so certain of what she said.

He had already turned to walk away, but he paused when she spoke, shrugging again. "You don't need  _my_  help, remember?"

She dropped the books and was on him in seconds, grabbing him by the back of his coat and spinning him around into the wall. She put one forearm across his collarbone, pushing against his throat and yanked out the stake with her other hand, holding it up and back, poised to strike.

"Tell me what you know and I won't stake you," she said threateningly.

He chuckled and shook his head, eyes looking heavenward. "Don't you Slayers ever come up with any new techniques?"

She pushed harder against his collarbone, her eyes cold and dangerous. "Why should we when brute force works so well? Come on, Spike, spill. I know you're dying to, that's why you came out here in the first place, right?" Her voice was mean, taunting.

Incredibly, his eyes filled with sadness, and then quickly, as if catching himself, they hardened with anger, his face tightening. For a moment she was struck by the raw power of emotion she saw in him, and then the moment passed, so fast that she began to doubt it had ever happened.

"Oh yeah, because I just can't wait to spill my bloody guts to  _you_ , who I've known all of five minutes and already can't stand." Yeah, big talk, Spike, keep the sarcasm heavy, he thought. Did  _he_  even know why he was here? Only in the vaguest sense… a feeling he couldn't quite explain.

"You wanna know about the Undead Summer Reading Circle?" he asked petulantly. "We don't do it like this."

"Really?" she asked flatly, never relaxing her grip. "How do 'we' do it, then?"

"Like civilized people; in chairs, with a table, some atmosphere. And beer," he added defiantly, as if daring her to question him.

She looked at him for a long moment, dark eyes searching his light blue ones. At last, she dropped her arm from him and stepped back. Stuffing the stake down the front of her jeans, she grinned at him in a way that was not altogether pleasant and shrugged her indifference.

"What the hell?" she asked with rhetoric whimsy.

He pushed away from the wall and straightened his jacket indignantly, giving her a hard look. "And you're buying."

She raised her brows at him and smiled in genuine amusement.

"Aw, and here I thought this was gonna be a  _real_  date."

She turned and began walking down the street. Spike stood, bewildered for a moment by her comment, and then followed after.

* * * * * * * * * * *

They found a seedy little bar toward the docks side of town, dank and dimly lit, sparsely occupied. Perfect for people who wanted to drink and didn't want to be seen. Faith hadn't been able to read the weathered sign hanging over the door, and she wondered if the place even had a name.

They were sitting in a worn leather booth in a dark corner of the club, such as it was, Spike sipping his beer and Faith growing more impatient by the moment.

"So," he said, giving her a last once over with his eyes. "I hear you're evil."

"I prefer the term 'heroically-challenged'," she said, affecting bored sarcasm. "How about you? They got a term for guys like you? Besides 'has-been', I mean."

"Ooooo," he said, exaggerating being impressed. "Kitten's got claws. Guess I'd better watch my manners."

"Screw manners," she said abruptly, leaning over the table toward him. "What do you know, blondie?"

"That you're an insufferable, arrogant sod," he said smoothly, eyeing her over the rim of his glass as he took another drink. Bloody hell but she was irksome. Her very voice set him on edge.

She blinked in surprise, and then smiled in wry appreciation, nodding her head. "Wow, I bet you're a real ladies man, pick-up lines like that."

"Well, I'm saving, 'nice boots, wanna have a go?' for someone who's actually desirable," he said bitingly, setting down his mug.

"Your loss," she said with a shrug.

Could she be real? With her alternately bright and somber moods, light and dark humor, and volatile temper, she could be anyone or anything at any given time, and he had absolutely no idea what to make of her. He was used to being able to read people, to see into their hearts. It was a talent he'd used to his advantage back when he'd been the big bad… now he mostly relied on it for survival. But this girl… she was something else all together. He would have sworn that she used her smooth, tough front to cover her pain, but there was something about her that rang true. She was pretending, hiding, and yet… in every word, every moment, every gesture, there was something very real, very revealing, and completely sincere.

"So, are we gonna get down to business, or are you gonna continue to seduce me with your dazzling charm?" she asked, and he could tell her tone was pitched to project exactly how unimpressed she was.

He snorted and shook his head, looking away. The faint sound of country music drifted on the smoky air, a sad woman proclaiming that somebody done somebody wrong, and the entire room reeked of loneliness, shadowy patrons sitting alone at their shadowy tables, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. They might have been the only couple in the room… but somehow, he felt even lonelier than he imagined those others did.

"I don't even know why I bloody came here," he muttered, running a hand through his platinum blond hair.

"Because I threatened to stake you if you didn't, remember?" she said bluntly, her tone growing threatening again.

"Oh yeah. Right." He nodded emphatically. "Suddenly I'm feeling  _much_  more chatty."

She cut her eyes at him and set her jaw, and despite himself, he couldn't help but notice the delicious, dark electricity that emanated from her when she was pissed. There was something about her that reminded him of both Drusilla and Buffy… a strange, mismatched and somehow intoxicating blend of womanly power… he found himself drawn to her, and yet strangely and strongly repelled at the same time.

"Just make with the explaining," she was saying, dark eyes flashing him a warning. "My therapist says people who beat around the bush set off my psychosis. It's a whole impatience thing."

"Yeah, I'd heard that you were a real gone bird," he said with a nod.

"You don't know anything about me," she snapped menacingly.

"I know you're a Slayer who's tasted the dark side of life. Gave up the noble goal for a slice of power…" he said, seeming to gloat. "Only it didn't work out so good, did it? Got yourself stuck in a coma for a year, then went to jail." He leaned forward and took another drink from his mug, eyes surveying her with a mocking gleam. "They make 'after-school specials' scarier than that," he confided with nasty glibness.

She glanced furtively around the room, and he suspected that if there'd been no other patrons present, she'd have staked him then and there and been done with it. He suspected she was thinking about doing it anyway.

"Ah, ah. Temper, temper," he said mockingly, shaking a finger at her. "You'll never get what you want, that way."

"What I want,  _vampire_ , is to know what you know about these books," she hissed through clenched teeth.

"Don't you know how to dance,  _Slayer_?" he asked, a smile playing about his lips. "Buy a bloke a drink… make with the niceties."

Her eyes fairly burned with hatred, and for a brief instant, he feared for his existence… then she pushed up violently from the table, turning to leave.

 _Fine. Let her go,_  spoke up the voice in his head, and he was tempted. It would be a lot easier to let her walk away, to stay disentangled from her life. But another part of him, the part he more and more often berated for its idiocy, found him reaching out after her, grabbing her by the hand and turning her about.

Her eyes blazed righteous fury down at him, and he couldn't help but smile.

"All right," he said quietly. "I'll tell you. Just sit down."

She yanked her hand from his, looking at him guardedly, seeming offended that he had dared to touch her… then she hitched up her shoulders arrogantly, hardened her eyes and nodded once. "It better be good," she said roughly, not bothering to sit. "And it'd better be fast."

"I bet you say that to all the boys." He smirked, and then, catching her glare, he nodded, taking another drink, gazing down into the mug, as if gathering his thoughts. The mood between them changed almost imperceptibly, and he could almost see his image in her mind, his status shifting from mistrusted stranger to… what? Mistrusted informant, maybe?

"I cut a deal with a demon a few days back… a Biblohsak, real literature type… he said he's had lots of vamps hitting him up for goods lately… spell books and such. He thought that was kind of odd, seeing as most vampires aren't 'Little Reader' types, asked me if I knew anything about it. Said they were looking for Ancient Sumerian restoration rituals." He raised his eyes to hers, curious to see if she knew what to make of that.

"Ancient Sumerian…" she echoed, and he could see the spark of recognition in her eyes, her focus suddenly going far away as she pondered, making some sort of connection in her mind. Then she seemed to snap back into the moment, eyes focusing on him in a belligerent, demanding manner. "So? What's the big deal about that?"

Smirking without humor, he raised his brows, looking at her intently. "Restoration rituals are serious powerful mojo. The kind of stuff that makes that "power of three" crap look like Romper Room. Any creature brave enough to play around with that kind of magic... must want something really bad. Probably looking to give power back to some big nasty, maybe even bring somebody back."

"Back from where?" she asked, confused.

"The plane of fluffy puppies and fairy dust," he answered with a roll of his eyes. "From the  _dead_ , Slayer," he clarified, annoyed.

She stared at him, seeming bewildered by the information, and in that moment, he actually felt sorry for her. Poor girl probably had no idea how to handle something like this. Street-fighting and gutter sniping seemed more her style than foiling evil plots, from what he'd seen.

"Why are you telling me this, Spike?" she asked, her voice edgy.

"You're the one that threatened to stake me if I didn't, remember?" he asked, uttering a disgusted snort of laughter.

She stood there, her face set as if carved from stone, but he could see the vulnerability creeping in. She was worried… scared, maybe. He could hardly blame her; it wasn't good news. And perhaps he'd been too forthcoming with the helpful information, because she was looking at him like she didn't believe his flippant answer.

He sat back in his seat, tipped his mug up and drained it, then set it on the table with a dull thud, shrugging his shoulders and looking away from her. "You  _are_  the Slayer right? One girl chosen in all the world and all that rot? Figured this was your gig."

"I meant why are you helping me?" she asked, more forcefully. There was a desperate note beneath her hard voice. "You don't even know me. What do you get out of this?"

What  _was_  he getting out of this? Here in this dismal place, drinking watered down beer, helping the Slayer, of all people. He bit the inside of his cheek and chuckled bitterly at himself. Oh, he knew why, knew how pathetic it was, too, and be damned if he was going to share with  _her_.

He shrugged. "Big nasties around here have a tendency to want to end the world a lot, and I don't fancy shuffling off this mortal coil just yet." It was an easy answer, a pat reply that she probably wouldn't question.

She looked at him intently for a long moment, as if weighing his words, her eyes flickering with indecision. Then her gaze grew suddenly distant and cold again, and she nodded, giving him a bleak smile. "Well, you get to live another night, anyway," she said, as if she were granting him a personal gift. "Lucky you"

Grabbing the knapsack he had loaded the books into, she turned and strode out of the bar.

In the end, Spike ended up paying for his own beer.

He didn't  _feel_  lucky.

* * * * * * * * * * *

He successfully resisted the urge to follow after her, making his way back to his crypt for the night. Maybe there'd be some good old black and white movie on the telly, something cheerful and mindless. Lord knew he hadn't had enough of those two things lately. Of course, his tastes regarding happiness had changed a lot since the chip had been inserted into his brain, and more often than not, the things that used to bring him joy—killing, feeding, fighting—were impossible to enact now, and their memories only filled him with helpless anger.

Of course, for a while, there had been Buffy… but he tried not to think too much about her. It was hard enough to bear her absence, worse to be consciously aware of it every moment.

It seemed like the only thing that brought him any pleasure anymore was trailing this new Slayer, and at first, he'd thought it was because it reminded him of the old days, when he had hunted Slayers for the fun of it. He had hunted many more than he had killed; most had died before he'd gotten the chance to kill them himself. Going through the motions of hunting had seemed to bring him some comfort, so he had accepted it at face value… he hadn't really wanted to think about  _that_ , either… but he guessed that even then some part of him had understood exactly what was going on.

He'd seen her fight for the first time more than a week ago. That was when he realized there was a part of him that cared what happened to this girl, whether she lived or died, and he had been so stunned by the idea, so stupefied in the face of such an illogical feeling, that he'd missed the rest of the battle. Luckily, that night she'd won without his help. He'd stumbled home in a daze, unable to understand what was happening to him, why his life kept throwing him such strange and twisted turns, and at first he'd been horrified that he was falling in love with her. He'd spent hours feeling terrible, guilty, as if he were betraying Buffy's memory by caring about anyone else… but at some point during the night, in the wee hours, he had figured out the truth of the matter.

Stupid as it sounded, somehow, being around this new Slayer, in some strange way, made him feel more connected to Buffy… as if a part of her spirit lived on in another, and in some bizarre sense, he supposed that was true. What was the Slayer power if not a spirit that passed from body to body?

Buffy… it always came down to her, didn't it? Ever since that moment four years ago when he'd come back to Sunnydale, everything had been about her. Slayers had always been a passion of his… he'd hunted many of them in his time, but always with the fascination of finding an equal predator, always with the intent to kill them, never with a care for them as a person. It wasn't until her that his fascination had given way to love, and letting her into his heart had forever changed the way he viewed Slayers.

They had simply been a challenge for him, the ultimate enemy to best in combat so he could add another notch in his belt… but after knowing Buffy, after fighting against her, after standing and fighting by her side, after seeing all she had suffered and sacrificed and given up, he had a whole new understanding of what it meant to be a Slayer. A poor little girl, forced into a world she barely understood, ultimately destined to die at the hands of some monster, fighting a war that would go on long after she died. All she had to look forward to was constant struggling, fighting, and fear while she waited for her inevitable death, which would come far too soon.

Once, he would have seen the dark beauty in that, appreciated the futility and inevitability of it. Now it only made him feel bitter and sad and empty. The chip in his head had begun his sea-change into something rich and strange, but the loss of Buffy had added a new dimension all together. He didn't know who or  _what_  he was anymore… no one did. And all of that left him somewhere in the middle of the field, fighting next to the people who'd once been his mortal enemies.

The Scoobies… he'd told them about the evil afoot in Sunnydale, of course, and Giles had been researching his books here and there. But they were all too caught up in their own grief and suffering to be much use fighting against the forces of darkness just now… better to let them sort things out, he thought, let this new gal have a go at the mystery. Each of the Scoobies had their own area of expertise, but when it came to hitting the streets and knowing what was going on around town, no one had a better line on things than the Slayer herself—except for the creatures of darkness she fought against.

Creature of darkness… is that what he was? Not anymore. Not even if he wanted to be. In the end, Buffy had seen that, had treated him like a man… but she had been the only one. He missed her like a vital organ, every day an exercise in dying by inches.

He didn't watch the telly. He didn't even turn it on. He crawled into his stone coffin, trench coat and all, wrapping it around him like a shroud as he curled up in a ball and fell fast asleep.

In his dreams, she lived.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Faith barged into the mansion, startling Angel from his seat.

"I didn't expect you back," he said, half-questioning.

"They're looking for a restoration spell," she said simply, not bothering to waste time prefacing the explanation.

Angel blinked, glanced down at the book in his hand, and then slowly looked back up at her. "You're sure?"

She nodded. "As sure as I can be, considering the source."

"The source?"

"Your old pal, Spike," she said casually, walking past him and dumping the knapsack out on the table, the old books sliding out in an untidy heap.

This time, his whole body jolted, just slightly, with shock. "You're serious? Spike told you this? And you believe him?"

"He didn't have a reason to lie." She shrugged.

"He's Spike," Angel said darkly, as if that explained everything. "He doesn't  _need_  a reason."

"Well, he  _is_  all chipped in the head. Killing his own kind and helping out the heroes. He…" she trailed off, looking at Angel as if suddenly seeing him in a new light. Then she grinned, realizing how much he was going to hate this. "He was actually a lot like y—"

"Don't let him fool you," he cut her off quietly. "He's a killer."

"So are we," she shot back.

He flinched as if the truth of her words had struck him, his gaze falling to the floor. "You can't trust him."

"Not really a problem," she said dryly. "I think he was on the level about this ritual though."

Angel thought about it for a moment, and then nodded, as if dismissing his doubts, or at least, setting them aside for now.

"I think I saw something not long ago about a restoration ritual," he said, and now that the moment of conflict had passed, his voice betrayed a touch of excitement. He crossed the room to the bookshelf where all the old texts now resided, put away the book he'd been perusing and pulled down a thick volume bound in cracked brown leather. He brought it to the table and opened it, motioning Faith over to next to him.

"I think it was somewhere in here," he said, turning about a quarter of the way through the tome. He scanned each page briefly with the cloudy magnifying glass, and Faith leaned over his shoulder, trying to see if she could catch any of the words.

"It translates to Latin," he explained, never taking his attention from the book; turning pages, skimming paragraphs and turning past gruesome depictions of rituals—

"Here," he said, and this time there was no mistaking the excitement in his voice. "'The Ritual of Rebirth is a restoration ritual with origins in the various rituals of blood and soul…'" he skipped further down the page. "'Other, lesser-known restoration rituals include Rejuvenation of the Heart, Restoration of the Soul…'" he trailed off, scanning further down the page. "It gives a list… no details, just the names and some notes of origin and a lot of stuff I can't make out."

He turned his head to look at Faith, and she could see the thoughts rushing through his mind. She had no idea what any of that crap meant, except in the broadest sense, but it seemed as if Angel might.

"Damn," he swore, shaking his head and looking back down at the text. "I wish I had my books here… I'll have to call Cordelia, have her do some cross-referencing online."

"And what exactly will she be looking for?" Faith asked with a confused frown.

"The location of an ancient Sumerian restoration ritual."

"But we don't even know which one," she said, exasperated.

"Yes we do," Angel replied, picking up a pen and beginning to write out the list of rituals. "Any of them that might be in Sunnydale."

She thought about that for a second, not sure she understood him. "You mean you think this ritual's right here in town somewhere?"

He nodded. "It might be in one of the books that have been stolen, but that's not likely. Spell casters don't allow powerful secrets like that to become common knowledge. For that kind of ritual, they usually make scrolls because they're easier to hide and destroy. Chances are, our bad guy found a reference to a spell's existence here in Sunnydale, but probably it didn't say exactly where."

"So they're checking all the ancient Sumerian books first, just to make sure?"

"That's my guess." He stopped, frowned, looked up at her. "Who are they trying to restore?"

She folded her arms over her chest and shrugged. "Beats me. Spike didn't know." She glanced away, hesitating, and then looked back to him, her voice faltering slightly over the next words. "He… he said they might be trying to bring someone back from the dead."

His frown deepened and he returned his attention to writing. "We'd better hurry, then."


	11. PHANTASM

CHAPTER 11: PHANTASM

I'm on a train, but there's no one at the helm,  
And there's a demon in my brain that starts to overwhelm,  
And there it goes, my last chance for peace,  
I lay me down, but I get no release,  
I try to keep awake, I try to swim beneath,  
But still I find this narcolepsy slides,  
Into another nightmare.  
And there's a demon in my head who starts to play,  
A nightmare tape loop of what went wrong yesterday,  
And I hold my breath 'till it's more than I can take,  
And I close my eyes and dream that I'm awake

~Narcolepsy, Third Eye Blind

_

 

Deep beneath the surface of Sunnydale, Faith made her way stealthily through the twisting tunnels that led off from the sewers. The light from her flashlight seemed a thin protection from the shadows that threatened to close in, and she could feel them pressing against the edges of the illumination, eager to devour the light that had no place among the caverns in the earth. She repressed a shudder and forced herself to think of other things. Getting all wigged out wasn't going to help her find…

She stopped, the mouth of the tunnel opening up to the broken stone remains of an old building, thick pillars rising up into the arches of an entryway. The doors had rotted off or been taken away long ago, and now the opening gaped like a leering mouth, inviting her, daring her to step inside.

 _Just an old building_ , she reassured herself, stepping forward.

It had been a church once, before whatever earthquake had sent it plummeting into the embrace of the earth, and a few stone pews still stood, a crumbling testament to those who had worshipped here once. Many of the pews had been destroyed when the church fell though, and huge chunks of stone littered the broken floor, forcing her to take her time as she approached the back of the building.

She could see the altar rising up from the floor ahead, bereft of any symbols to identify what sort of place of worship this had been. She raised the beam of her flashlight above the altar, the light traveling up the crumbling wall, and then leaped backward, nearly losing her balance atop the pile of rubble she was climbing, as she saw the form of a man looming above it. Heart thundering in her ears, she couldn't help but chuckle at herself as the image impressed itself upon her brain, making sudden sense. Of course, this was a church after all; Christ hanging upon the cross would be a natural decoration above many altars. She had only seen the form for a moment though, and thought its pale tint was the color of dead flesh, the feet and legs of some terrible creature that had launched itself at her.

Regaining her feet, she felt reassured somehow. She'd never been much on church—a heathen, her mother had called her—but the presence of the Christian savior was somehow comforting, a talisman against the creatures of the night. Surely there were no vampires here, in this once holy place. They would have found it, at the very least, distasteful.

She made her way to the altar quickly after that, her steps no longer hesitant, and gained the rise the altar sat upon. It had to be there, she thought, taking a last glance around the room, flashlight making a sweeping arc of the ruin. There were crumbling alcoves everywhere, but none of them deep enough to lead off into a separate section, and she guessed if any of the clergymen had made their home here, it had been on a level beneath the church; a level that no longer existed.

Gripping the flashlight between her teeth, she knelt down by the altar, fingers tracing the edges of the old stone, searching for a seam. Somehow she knew it was there… she could sense it, as if it were a beacon that called to her. She made a slow circle around the edges of the structure, fingers finding no holds along the corners, and at last, she stood, looking down at it curiously. On impulse, she slid her fingers beneath the slight lip of the surface, gripping and pulling upward—and was rewarded by a shift in the stone. With a heaving shove, she threw the stone top aside, her ears cringing against the loud crash it made as it fell to the floor, shattering into pieces.

Quickly, she stepped back and grabbed the flashlight from her mouth, shining it down inside the box. Nothing stirred within except a cloud of dust, and she could see the moldering remains of several items beneath; some sort of cloth, a few rosaries made of rotting wood, nothing of any note or value.

Gripping the flashlight in her teeth again, she reached in and shoved these aside, and beneath the old cloth, which disintegrated with her rough motion, she was rewarded by the sight of several old books. Their size seemed somehow grotesque, swollen beyond normal proportions by the water that had somehow crept in over the years, and her heart sank as she realized that whatever information they held was likely lost forever; they'd fall apart the moment she tried to open them. She put her hands on the edge of the stone and sighed around the flashlight. Damn, she'd been so sure—

The flashlight caught a glint of something metallic to the left of the books. She reached in, fumbling through the dust and debris, fingers encountering metal. She felt along the length of the item, getting a feel for its size and proportion, and then wrapped her fingers around what felt like a slender metal tube. Her heart leapt with excitement as she realized she had found it. Surely the scroll was in the tube!

She wrenched her arm to draw it free… and cold, dead fingers clenched around her wrist. Frantic, she kept pulling, her single thought to keep hold of the scroll and her flashlight at all costs, some dim part of her brain realizing that she'd never find her way back out of here without light. So overcome by the thought of escape, she didn't realize that she was pulling the creature that held her free of its prison.

The flashlight swung crazily, sending shadows scurrying back and forth over the surfaces that had seemed so benign a moment before, and she panicked, making a last desperate lurch to get away. Her feet caught in the rubble of the floor and she slid downward, her belly scraping down the side of the altar, and she felt the momentum shift as the creature rose above her, still holding her wrist. Overcome with terror and the sudden realization that she was all alone down here, she brought her head up, wanting, needing to see what it was—

Buffy had been dead for a long time. Worms crawled in and out of her sunken eye sockets and through the hole where her nose had once been. Her blond hair hung ragged and dirty, and huge chunks of it had fallen free, leaving ragged holes in the tight green flesh that covered her skull. Her lips had disintegrated long ago, but her teeth were still whole, and she seemed to leer at Faith as she looked down at her, her face a nightmarish Halloween mask.

Faith opened her mouth to scream long and loud, dropping the flashlight, and it hit the ground, clattering as it flickered and then went out. The scream locked in her throat, and tears formed in her eyes, terror hammering in her heart like a living thing.

The last thing she heard was Buffy's voice, whispering like the cold of a grave.

"It's not what you think."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Faith woke, her throat giving voice to the scream her dream self hadn't been able to, and she thrashed around on the bed, trying to break the creature's grip on her, until at last she fell on the wooden floor of her room. The breath went from her lungs in a rush as she struck the surface, and she stopped struggling, suddenly aware that it was daytime, and she was safe in her room, not caught beneath the earth in the grasp of Buffy's hideous corpse.

She flipped over onto her back and sat up, bracing her elbows against her knees and running her hands through her hair. What the  _hell_?

The door to her room opened and Beatrice stood there, blue eyes icily calm. "Faith? Are you all right?"

She looked up, wondering how she must appear to the older woman, still half-terrified and out of breath like she'd run twenty miles. Finally she managed to nod. "Just… a nightmare."

"You're sure you're all right?" Beatrice inquired again, and this time there was a note of concern n her voice.

She looked up, slightly annoyed that her Watcher was still there. "I said I was fi—"

As Faith watched, tiny beads of blood gathered at the base of Beatrice's throat, welling up along the line of a cut so thin she could barely see it. The beads swelled, growing into droplets, and then droplets gave way to a torrential flood. Faith scrambled to her feet, terrified beyond all coherent thought, and with sickening clarity, she saw Beatrice's head slid sideways atop her neck, the flesh rending with a thick tearing sound, blood spewing forth in a geyser from the stump of her neck. Her head fell from her shoulders as if in slow motion, striking the floor and tumbling to land at Faith's feet like a horrible gift.

"Ungrateful bitch," Beatrice spat, her bloodied face contorting with hatred as she stared up at Faith.

Faith put her hands over her face to block out the vision, feeling another scream rising up from her gut—

And she woke, sitting bolt upright in bed, barely managing to bite back the sound.

"What the  _fuck_?" she exclaimed, leaping up from her bed and throwing the blankets aside. She put a hand to her forehead and paced the length of the tiny room a few times in quick succession, trying to bring her mind back under control.

A sharp rap on her door made her start, and she froze, eyes wide, her imagination running gleefully away with disturbing images of what lay on the other side of the door.

"Faith? Are you awake?" came Beatrice's muffled voice through the door.

She breathed again, unaware that she had stopped until that moment. "Um, yeah. I'm up. I'll be down in a few minutes," she added hastily, not wanting the woman to come in.

She could almost feel Beatrice's presence recede, and she sank down onto the bed with relief, head in her hands. It was way past time to figure out what the hell was going on inside her twisted brain.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Faith… why didn't you tell me about this before?" Angel asked, looking up at her enigmatically.

She couldn't tell if he was worried, disappointed, angry or what. And she didn't much care.

"I didn't think it was important. Look, Angel, I've had lots of nightmares since…" Finch. The blood on her hands. The professor she'd so casually gutted. "I've had a lot of nightmares," she concluded, leaving it at that. "And none of them were as…  _real_  as these. They're really wigging me out. Am I… am I going crazy?" she asked, sinking down into a chair.

He looked at her face, so frantic and scared, so worried that maybe something was wrong with her. Whatever her reasons for not telling him before, at least she was telling him now, and wasting time on recriminations would be just that; a waste of time.

"No," he said gently. "I don't think you're crazy." He rose from his seat and took a step toward her, stopped, hesitated. "Faith… you're a Slayer. Your dreams can be prophetic—"

The look she gave him was so full of naked terror that for a moment he forgot what he'd been saying. She squirmed in the chair, as if she wanted to crawl away from him, hide from what he was saying.

"You mean these things could be  _real_? They could…  _happen_?"

"Probably not exactly like you saw them," he said, trying to sound reassuring. He moved toward her with more certainty now, kneeling down beside her. Her hands twisted in her lap and she looked as if she were ready to bolt out the door at any second. Calmly, he reached out, grasping one of her hands in his and pulling it toward him. Her skin was incredibly warm and he could feel her heartbeat pounding rapidly through the thin skin of her wrist.

"Faith," he said commandingly, and obediently, she turned her eyes on him. "Listen to me. Dreams almost never mean exactly what we see. Their meanings are usually more symbolic of deeper truths. In the case of a Slayer though, the truths tend to be more of a prediction of future events than the random ramblings of the subconscious." He felt her begin to pull away and held onto her hand more tightly. "That doesn't mean you'll be coming face to face with… corpses," he said, stumbling over Buffy's name and finally avoiding it. "It means there's something bigger at work here. Maybe it's even… maybe it's a warning of what's to come."

"I don't care  _what_  it's trying to tell me!" she said desperately, struggling to break his grip on her. "I just want it  _gone_."

He grabbed her other hand and held them both tightly, moving so that he was directly in front of her, their entwined hands between them. He caught her eyes with his and held them, intense and sincere.

"The only way to get rid of the dreams, Faith, is to listen to them."

She shook her head, hair tumbling about her face, head lolling away from his.

"Faith," he shook her once, and her eyes snapped back to him, large and fearful. "Trust me."

She looked at him for a long moment in silence, and he could see the thoughts rush through her mind, could see how torn she was, how undecided. At last she closed her eyes and nodded once.

He let go of her hand and reached up to touch her cheek. "It'll be okay," he said quietly. She sat there a moment longer, her eyes still closed, and then she jerked her head away as if his touch had burned her.

He drew his hand back, surprised, but she was looking at him now, the fire back in her eyes, fear relegated to the background.

"Let's do it, then."

He hesitated, wondering… then he nodded and stood. "Okay."

"Where do we start?"

"With the history of the local churches," he replied, already moving toward the bookshelves.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Faith stepped out into the daylight outside the mansion, list of books to look for clutched in her hand. She paused, her other hand reaching up to touch her cheek… she could still feel the touch of his hand there, so gentle and caring upon her skin. How many times had she been touched like that in her life? Once? Twice, maybe? It unnerved her, the effect he'd had on her, and she'd been damned glad to get out of there.

Yeah. Damned glad.

She stood there a moment longer, dark eyes uncertain, and then she let her hand fall away from her face, pushing the incident from her mind as she made her way toward Sunnydale downtown.

* * * * * * * * * * *

It was well past sundown when she returned to the mansion, arms laden with bags of books.

"You know, for a town that's only a hundred and two, this one sure has a lot of history," she said, dropping the bags unceremoniously on the floor.

Angel stood at the table, arms spread wide as he leaned over it, looking intently at whatever he had laid out upon it. "It's a lot older than that," he said distractedly.

"That's not what the sign out front says," she said, moving over to the table to see what had him so enraptured.

"It wasn't called Sunnydale, back then," he answered, still not looking up. "The Spaniards settled here sometime in the 1700's, and even more ancient civilizations lived here before then. The earthquake of 1812 was enough to send the Spaniards on their way, though, and only scattered peoples lived here until the Mayor officially founded it as Sunnydale in 1900."

She nodded, seeming impressed. "Somebody's been doing their homework."

"That's old news," he said dismissively. "What'd you get?" he asked finally looking up and stepping away from the table.

She shrugged and waved her hand in the direction of the books she'd carried in. "All kinds of stuff. Have a look." She wandered closer to the table. "What'd  _you_  get?"

"Maps," he said shortly, rummaging through the bags. He sifted through the books as he stacked them off to the side, shaking his head in annoyance. "I don't think official history is going to tell us much… did you manage to get—"

"Check the brown paper bag," she replied, leaning over the table to have a better look at the old map. It was yellowed with age, its edges split and wrinkled with time, and the landscape it depicted didn't look anything like the Sunnydale she was familiar with today.

Angel returned to the table a moment later with a few small leather-bound books. "Where did you get these?"

She looked at them and shrugged. "Sunnydale's Sunny Christian Bookstore," she said offhandedly. "The old lady behind the counter was so excited that I was interested in them that she told me all about the Sunnydale church history. I barely escaped with my heathen soul intact," she added with a wry grin.

Angel nodded, thumbing through the pages. "These are handwritten," he noted. "Did she say anything else about them?"

"Just that they were probably useless except for collecting. Said no one could read them. I figured your magnifying glass could help with that, though."

"They seem to be written in some kind of code," he said in agreement. "I think they're journals of some sort."

Faith shrugged again, moving away from the table and dropping into a nearby chair. "That's your department." She glanced back at the table, her mind still on the map. "So you really think this scroll is in a church underground, like in my dream?"

"It seems too blatant a message not to investigate, don't you think?" he asked, looking over at her.

"I guess…" Her face was troubled, and she glanced away from him, not quite willing to voice her thoughts.

"You won't be going down there alone," he said, as if reading her mind.

"Yeah," she said abruptly, leaping to her feet. "Well, good luck with your reading."

"You're not going to stick around?"

"I've gotta patrol."

"I'll let you know if I find anything," he called after her, but she was already gone.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Angel spent three nights of solid reading before he found it.

He hurried from his seat by the fireplace to the map on the table, finger coming to rest on a small building.

He looked back at the book, skimming the paragraph he'd just read with the magnifying glass again, and then looked to the map, tapping his finger against the drawing with certainty.

"There…"

* * * * * * * * * * *

The vampire servant glanced up nervously as his mistress rose from the scrying pool, her face alive with an emotion that frightened him more than her frequent outbursts of rage. She looked… happy.

"He's found it," she hissed, lips parting in a cruel smile.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Can't you just go down and get it yourself?" Faith asked, her voice edgy with irritation.

"I won't be able to touch it," Angel said, pulling the sewer grate from its resting place. "According to this Brother Leemin's journal, it's protected against evil."

"But you're…" she trailed off at the look he gave her, lowering her eyes. "Okay. Then it's safe," she concluded forcefully. "If the vamps can't touch it—"

"Faith, if they figure out where it is, they'll find a way. We have to get it." He fixed her with a look that was so intense and warm that it made her want to punch him.

"Fine," she said moodily, and before Angel could utter another word, she lowered herself onto the ladder and began descending into the sewers.

He followed after, sliding the manhole cover back into place as he went.

Several minutes later, another set of hands slid the cover off.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The tunnels were just as she'd dreamed, and she had to fight herself to keep from turning tail and running back the way they'd come. At least she had more than a paltry flashlight this time; she'd come armed with torches and glow sticks, just in case.

Angel moved beside her, just slightly ahead, leading the way, glancing back at her every now and then as if to make sure that she was still there. They moved deeper into the tunnels, away from the center of town, at last reaching the point where earthen tunnels branched off from the man-made concrete.

"It's not far now," Angel said, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder over at her.

She bit back a nasty retort and nodded, tightening her grip on the flashlight as they descended down the curving slope of packed dirt. The tunnel twisted once or twice, and they were just coming up around another turn when she was overcome with a sense of déjà vu. She watched the arched opening materialize out of the darkness like a mirage, its appearance freezing her in place.

"Faith?" Angel asked softly. He had stopped and turned toward her, his dark eyes gentle and questioning.

"You're coming in with me, right?" she asked quickly, harshly, her eyes darting toward him.

He nodded, and she hesitated only a moment before shoving past him. "Let's do it quick, then."

Together, they passed under the arch, and despite his presence, Faith felt herself breaking out in a cold sweat. It was freaksome, how exactly like her dream this place was. The standing pews stretched away like sentinels before her, their decimated brothers and sisters strewn across the rocky floor precisely the same way she remembered.

"Fuck," she muttered, wiping a hand over her cool, slick brow. She thought Angel shot her a concerned look from the side, but she didn't bother to look back, moving even faster toward the altar.

They reached the altar and Faith hesitated, looking at Angel expectantly. He nodded once and grabbed the lip of the stone top, throwing it from the altar with far more ease than she had in her dream. He gave her a penetrating look, and then stepped back, waiting.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and stepped forward, flashlight trembling in her hand. The light bounced over the contents within, revealing exactly what she'd seen before. Biting down on the inside of her cheek, she leaned over, shoving the cloth and the books aside, hands happening on the metal tube that she had half-expected not to be there. She inhaled sharply as she gripped it tightly and yanked it free, so fast and hard that she nearly fell backward. She was still expecting cold, decaying hands to grab her when she felt Angel reach out and catch her, steadying her on her feet.

She looked at him for a moment in silence, still trying to break free of the remembered horror of her dream, and then one corner of his mouth quirked in a smile.

"You did it."

"Yeah," she said, holding up the metal scroll case in front of her, looking at it as if dazed. It didn't look like much, plain and battered and rusting with age, and at last she snapped out of her trance and pulled away from him.

"Let's get the hell out of here."

* * * * * * * * * * *

She was feeling much better by the time they rounded the corner back into the main sewers, the scroll case tucked reassuringly in the inner pocket of her jacket, the memory of her nightmare behind her.

Now all they had to do was get back to the mansion and—

Nine sets of glowing yellow eyes greeted her as she came into full view of the main corridor.

"Shit," she swore softly and spun—

Seven more sets of eyes glowed in the corridor behind them.


	12. STAND

CHAPTER 12: STAND

Twisting the strangle grip  
Won't give no mercy  
Feeling those tendons rip  
Torn up and mean

Blastmaster racks the ground  
Bent on survival  
Full throttle hammers down  
A deadly scream

All Guns, All Guns Blazing

~All Guns Blazing, Judas Priest

-

 

Angel turned and lunged at the vampires in the sewers ahead of them, his much larger frame slamming into them and splitting their ranks.

"Don't worry about killing them! Just get out!" He shouted, spinning and punching one of the still standing vamps in the jaw.

She didn't hesitate, not even stopping to think as she threw herself forward through the gap he'd created, and when a hand grabbed her around the ankle, she instantly kicked backward with her trapped foot, smiling grimly as she heard the sole of her boot impact against the vampire's face with a sickening crunch. She yanked her foot free as the creature cried out and kept running.

A moment later, she heard footsteps behind her and she risked a backward glance, heaving a sigh of relief as she caught a glimpse of Angel, then grimacing as the horde of vampires came into view behind him, still in pursuit.

She sprinted down the concrete corridor, looking around frantically for the passage that would take them back to where they'd entered, but they all looked the same to her.

"Angel!" she yelled in frustration.

"Just take the next ladder up," he yelled back. "I'll try and hold them off."

The vampire leaped out in front of her so suddenly that she slammed into it at a full-out run, flattening it to the floor and landing on top of it. She pushed up off the creature's chest, reached for her stake and brought it down in a deadly arc—

The vampire grabbed her by the wrist, turning the stake aside and yanking her face down to his, fangs revealed by its gleeful grin as it leaned in toward her neck.

She dropped the flashlight and reached for her second stake, drawing it free and planting it in the creature's chest with one smooth motion. It had barely crumbled to dust when she felt strong hands grab her underneath her arms, hefting her roughly to her feet. She spun, a stake still in each hand, poised for the killing blow—

"Run!" Angel growled, turning her around and pushing her forward.

She ran. She could hear the echoing footfalls of their pursuers rattle off the curved concrete walls like rapid gunfire, sharp, deadly and unrelenting. How many of them were back there? Fifteen? Twelve? Too damned many. At least Angel had had the presence of mind to grab the flashlight, and in the wild, bobbing arc the light made as he ran, she caught sight of another side tunnel that branched off up ahead.

Hoping against hope, she called out, "This one?"

"I—I don't know," Angel answered from behind her.

Desperate to lose the vamps, she took the corner without slowing, dismayed for a moment when she saw that it went on past her limited vision, vanishing into darkness rather than ending at a ladder. Then, she frowned, Angel's reply playing back in her head. His voice had sounded weak with more than the exertion of running, and running didn't seem to wind him much anyway… She started to turn and look at him—

The concrete of the tunnel ended abruptly, loose dirt washing over its edges like waves lapping at the shore of a beach. It took her several feet to slow her pace, and several feet later, the dirt tunnel came to a dead end. She turned frantically, eyes wild and desperate, hoping that Angel had some idea—

He was covered in blood; more blood than she had ever seen while awake. Somewhere during their battle and flight, his throat had been slashed, torn open by the fangs or talons of their pursuers, and she doubted if any mortal could have withstood such damage and lived. His skin was ashen, pale and drawn over his bones, and his face shone with the sweat of excruciating pain. He looked at her with eyes that were just as bewildered as her own, but he wasn't frightened. As she watched, his eyes filled with a sadness and a finality that numbed her heart. She could see the truth of their future reflected very clearly in those dark depths

"I'm… sorry…" he whispered raggedly, and then fell forward, collapsing at her feet.

She dropped to her knees in shock, the hard earth sending a jolt through her body that she barely felt, and her hands rose helplessly at her sides, stakes tumbling from nerveless fingers, forgotten before they hit the ground. Eyes wide and face slack, as if in the slow motion of a dream, she reached out to him with hands that shook so badly that it took her a moment to recognize them as her own. Fingers brushed over the leather of his coat, flinching as they touched blood, and she laid trembling hands on his side, as if her very touch could somehow heal him.

"No," she whispered, still not able to look at his crumpled form, the curves of the tunnel blurring as her eyes filled with tears.

A moment later, the blur of a dozen glowing eyes materialized from the darkness.

* * * * * * * * * * *

She saw the vampires closing in, but through the shocked fog surrounding her mind, she didn't truly comprehend their presence. Her brain was shutting down, closing out with the knowledge that the last surviving person who had ever given a damn about her was lying dead beneath her, and that she would shortly share the same fate. In that instant, inside the small area of her mind that still functioned, separate from everything that was happening around her, everything seemed crystal clear; everything made perfect sense. It would be so easy just to let go… so easy to make peace with her life and escape beneath the black wave of death, letting it wash over her and drift away…

Snap.

Just like that the mist of sorrow dissolved, despair giving way to a fury born of madness. Like a living thing, it took control of her, calming her heart and clearing her mind, filling her with a sense of purpose that had nothing to do with peace.

Her hands clenched Angel's jacket in white-knuckled rage, with such force that her crushing fingers bruised her palms, though she didn't feel it. A growl rose menacingly from her chest, building into a scream of primal rage that erupted from deep within her throat, so feral that for an instant, the vamps actually hesitated.

Stake clenched in one fist, she jumped to her feet in a fluid motion, rising before them with such deadly confidence that it seemed she could kill them with merely a glance of the hatred that burned in her eyes. With her free hand, she reached into the outer pocket of her jacket and pulled out a slim, rectangular tin can. Ripping the plastic top from it with her teeth, she held it forth and squeezed so hard that the fluid inside easily crossed the several feet of distance between her and the vampires, splashing over the four at the front of the pack. It happened so fast that they only had time to flinch, realizing they were being sprayed, and by then she had dropped the can, reaching back into her jacket again.

They lunged as one, and she backed up a few paces to where the tunnel narrowed, giving herself a moment to finish extracting what she needed from her pocket. With a cold smile, she flipped open the top, struck the lighter, and simply touched it to the clothing of the first vampire that reached for her.

He erupted in flame that consumed the lighter fluid quickly, spreading rapidly to consume his clothing, and he fell back, flailing. The second vampire grabbed at her hand that held the lighter, and the look of surprise on his face was almost comical as she let him grab her wrist, then thrust her hand forward, touching the lighter to his chest. He let go, catching fire as well, attempting to retreat, but there was no escape for either of them beyond the wall of vampires that filled the tunnel behind them. The other two vamps that had been sprayed with lighter fluid caught fire as their companions thrashed against them, and now they began to flail as well, the tunnel erupting in calamity as the vampires began to retreat.

The two vampires in the front exploded into ash in rapid succession, and the two still burning fell to the floor as their brethren exited the tunnel, leaving them to their fate.

She clicked the lighter shut and dropped it carelessly to the ground, lifting her stake and stepping forward. She didn't even look at the burning vampires, stepping over their bodies and thrusting her stake into the back of a retreating vamp, walking through the ash as it vaporized. Another vampire that had caught fire exploded in front of her, and as he disappeared, she could see the rest of the pack edging warily at the mouth of the tunnel, vague shadows against a backdrop of darkness.

With the fire having run its course, she could no longer see, and calmly, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a glow stick, using her teeth to snap it before she threw it on the ground in front of her.

The cool blue light illuminated the twisted visage of a vampire as it leaped at her, and she dropped to her knees, thrusting up with her arm, catching it under the ribcage with her stake. It vanished and she sprang back to her feet in time to punch the next vampire full in the face, hearing its cheekbone crack and splinter beneath the force of the blow. It reeled back and she followed through with a quick thrust of her stake, leaving only ash behind. A third vampire knocked the stake from her hand, and a fourth punched her in the jaw, and she fell to the floor, barely feeling the blow through the rush of adrenaline that filled her.

Again she reached into a pocket and pulled out a short length of wood she'd meant to soak with lighter fluid and use as a torch. Its size was unwieldy as a close combat weapon, but all she did was lift it up to impale the vampire that had punched her as he fell upon her, the dust of his body leaving a fine covering over her. In an instant she was back on her feet, and she used both hands to shove the thick length of wood into the chest of the vampire who'd disarmed her. He vanished and she leveled her eyes on the three remaining vampires who stood uneasily at the end of the tunnel.

They turned and ran.

She dropped the piece of wood to the ground, and turned, walking back to where the flashlight hit the roof of the dirt tunnel at a crazy angle, illuminating the still, dark form beside it. She dropped to her knees next to him, chest heaving with exertion and emotion, cold anger beginning to drain from her now that the danger was past, leaving her abandoned to reality.

Head bowed, she held her hands to her eyes, trying in vain to stop the flow of tears from escaping.

"Well," came an impressed voice from behind her. "And here I thought you might need help."

She brought her head up proudly but didn't turn, recognizing the voice instantly. She didn't want him to see her like this.

He could smell the blood of course, but that didn't concern him. He didn't really give a fig's arse about Angel. Grandsire or not, he'd had just about all he could stand of the amazing, expressionless, emotional wonder boy. The girl though… he wasn't sure how many she'd killed, but he knew that fifteen vamps had entered these sewers, and even though Angel was out and he'd arrived late, only three vampires had escaped with their un-lives. He'd never seen a Slayer kill that many in one turn. And from the smell of blood in the air, she hadn't even been scratched. Of course, judging from the scorched scent that also lingered in the tunnel, she'd had a bit of fire to help her. Still…

"You all right?" he asked, noting that other than to raise her head, she hadn't moved at all.

"You came to help me?" she asked, her voice ragged and taut.

"I saw them come down after you. Thought you might need a spot of help against that many, yeah. Didn't find you though, 'til I saw the last three scurrying out." He glanced around and nodded his appreciation. "Good show."

She rose to her feet and turned, and though she made a good effort, he could smell the salt of tears lingering on her cheeks.

"Help me get him out of here," she said quietly, and without waiting for a response, she turned and began tugging at Angel's body, trying to lift him from the ground.

"I didn't come for hi—"

She spun, her face dark with anger. "Help me, or I swear, there won't be enough left of you to fit in an urn when I'm done." Again she didn't wait for a reply, turning back to her work.

He blinked, head tilting to one side as he considered… and suddenly all the pieces of the puzzle seemed to fall into place; Angel's injury, her killing so many vampires and chasing off the rest, the tears she'd just shed… He walked forward, stepping over Angel and kneeling, facing her, forcing her to look at him with the intensity of his gaze. His eyes were bemused, glimmering with just a touch of cynical humor.

"You're in love with him, aren't you?"

She froze for an instant, her first impulse to laugh and flatly deny his question, which felt far more like an accusation… but she found herself wordless, staring at him helplessly instead. She shook her head, gaze falling back to Angel's body. "Just help me."

He nodded once. "I understand," he said so quietly that she thought she'd misheard him. She raised her eyes to look at him, and found his clear blue eyes filled with an incredible sadness.

After a moment, he broke the look, glancing down and sliding his hands underneath Angel's body. "Let's get him out of here, then."

Together, they carried him to the surface.

* * * * * * * * * * *

It was nearing dawn when they emerged from the tunnels.

"I think he's gotten heavier," Spike grunted, letting Angel slip to the ground.

Faith looked dubiously to the lightening sky. "We have to hurry," she said, then stopped abruptly, her eyes falling to Angel's form. "Will… will the sunlight still make him… you know?"

Spike looked at her curiously, not understanding.

"I mean… since he's…"

He chuckled mirthfully, suddenly realizing what she meant. "He's not  _dead_ , luv."

She blinked, heart thudding out of time once with surprise, not quite daring to hope.

"Well, he's  _dead_ , of course," Spike amended, shrugging. "But not in the pushing up daisies sort of way."

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice edging on anger. She was at the end of her rope for patience, and if Spike was toying with her…

"A spot of blood and the goody-two-shoes here'll be back in business. Draining a vamp incapacitates them, but it doesn't kill. We can live without blood, you know. Just not very well."

She hadn't known, he could tell by the shocked expression and the dawning hope in her eyes.

"Then we have to hurry!" she said excitedly, reaching down to grab Angel's limp arm.

Spike was shaking his head. "Not gonna happen, luv. We'll never beat the sun," he added, raising his eyes to the sky.

"We will. We have to! We can't let him die now." She was struggling, pulling Angel up from the ground and nearly buckling beneath his weight.

"I know you're desperate for a happy ending here, Slayer, but it's not going to happen unless the nancy boy here can walk on his own two feet."

She looked at him askance, ceasing her struggles to support Angel's body as she tried to figure out what Spike meant. Angel slid slowly down her side and she grunted, trying to get her shoulder under his arm again. "What do you mean?" she asked irritably.

"I mean you have to feed him," he said, a touch of irritation creeping into his own voice.

She stopped moving completely, and Angel slid bonelessly to the ground.

"You mean…"

"Of course, if you're shy about feeding your blood to a vamp, we can just let him sunbathe. He probably won't even wake up," Spike said indifferently.

She looked down at Angel's pale, drawn face, her heart torn. She could save him, and normally, she would have jumped to do whatever it took… but letting him feed from her? She didn't know if she could stand it. She'd had nightmares about it, had lived every fight of her life in fear of being fed on. It was a violent, intimate and disgusting act, and she didn't enjoy the thought of being violated in such a way… but… this was Angel…

She glanced up at the sky, disheartened by the light blue tint of the horizon. They had perhaps a half hour, maybe less. Spike was right; they'd never make it to the mansion before the sun caught them, even with both of them carrying Angel. He was just too big and heavy and awkward to carry easily. There wasn't even a choice to be made.

"How?" she asked shortly, looking at Spike, her eyes hard, her face resolved.

She had guts; he'd give her that. He considered her for a long moment and then drew a pocketknife from his jeans, handing it to her wordlessly.

She looked at it as if she'd never seen a knife before, pondering the enormity of what she was about to do… then she flipped the knife open and drew the blade over her wrist, wincing as the blood welled, then flowed. Kneeling, she turned Angel on his back and held her arm above his mouth, letting the blood drip from her wrist. It hit his mouth and spattered, so bright against the pale purple of his lips, the contrast of color making him appear even paler than he had a moment before. Gritting her teeth, she clenched her hand into a fist, forcing the blood to flow faster from her wound, watching it flow through his slightly parted lips.

"Come on Angel. Come on," she urged, whispering heatedly.

His eyelids fluttered, then opened, irises appearing deep black against the pallor of his skin, and she had a moment to smile before he leaned up and grabbed her wrist, forcing it to his mouth. She cried out as his incisors bit into the flesh of her arm, piercing her vein, and the sensation was just as it had been in her dream; the slow, languid feeling of being drained, darkness encompassing her and slowly closing down around her, thoughts slipping away like quicksilver even as she tried to grab hold of them.

Her wrist burned with fiery pain, but after a few moments she began to feel an inexplicable pleasure flood through her as well. This had not been part of her dream… it filled her with shuddering waves of ecstasy that coupled with the pain to send chills down her spine, her flesh thrilling everywhere his skin touched against hers, every nerve hyper aware and trembling with sensation. It seemed that her blood sang with passion, nerves chorusing in joy, swelling and joining together in pleasure so intense that her feeble mind fairly pleaded with it to crest, that she might not be tortured by it any longer.

Heedless of her wishes, her blood poured from her like liquid fire and she gasped for air, lungs seeming unable to draw breath, her body stiffening and contorting with the pain and pleasure forced upon her. Uncontrollably, she arched her back and cried out with the last of her breath, falling backward, falling backward through time and space, through darkness and light, falling through eternity, forever…

The stars of her mind flickered and winked out.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Beneath Sunnydale, the woman known to her progeny as "mistress" clenched her fists in helpless rage.

"Damn him! Damn Angelus to hell!" she cried furiously.

The three surviving participants of the sewer excursion prostrated themselves silently before their mistress, offering no further explanation and voicing no pleas for mercy. Her attending servant glanced at them and then lowered his head respectfully, thinking it wouldn't be prudent to point out that the Slayer had actually been the one to thwart their plans.

"He has my scroll!" she exploded plaintively.

Her attendant nodded, commiserating, still not raising his eyes to look at her. He wasn't certain if she was speaking to him or not, but better to show that he was paying attention. The other three vampires remained very still, not daring to look up at her.

"He must be removed," she decided aloud, and her voice quieted, as if she had suddenly regained control over her raging temper.

"But what of the Slayer, mistress?" one of the vampires asked tremulously, heartened by her calmer tone of voice.

She stopped moving, as if surprised by the question, and knelt before the vampires on the floor, robes rustling about her body like snakes hissing in warning. The expression of the vampire who had spoken went slack, only his eyes glittering with abject terror, and it was all he could do not to cringe as his mistress reached out with terrifying tenderness to caress his face.

"Poor dear. Did she frighten you so terribly?" Her voice was soft, soothing, almost mesmerizing as it lilted in time with her stroking fingers. Her fingers paused, nails resting against his cheek, and she lifted her face as if an idea of great importance had suddenly occurred to her, one that must be considered before she spoke. She looked again to her subject, her eyes narrowing. "Did she frighten you more than me?"

"N-no mistress," the vampire said with an emphatic shake of his head.

"You didn't want to come back to me, did you?" she asked gently, stroking the creature's face as a mother might stroke her child's. "You were afraid that I'd kill you for failing."

"Yes, mistress," the vampire replied, and now his voice was filled with shame. He lowered his eyes from hers, fearing for his death and at the same time, somehow feeling unworthy of her attention.

"Then why did you return?" she asked, as if she were truly curious.

The vampire shook his head faintly, not able to meet her eyes. "I—I…"

"Look at me," she said, lifting his chin with one finger. "Yes, that's right."

All traces of terror left the vampires visage as he gazed upon his mistress' face.

"You don't know why you returned, do you?"

As if dazed, eyes wide and hardly focused, the vampire shook his head in agreement.

"I do," she said, her voice a bare whisper as she leaned her face closer to him. Her lips brushed against his and he shuddered, as if in ecstasy, eyes rolling back in his head.

"While there is life in you, you will always return to me," she whispered seductively, her face weaving back and forth in front of his like a cobra. "You have no choice. I am your maker, your mistress, and you would do anything to make me happy. Isn't that right?"

The vampire nodded, seeming too overcome to speak.

She held his eyes for a long moment in silence, then drew back, stroked the vampire's chin, and brightened. "Why, I bet you'd happily immolate yourself for my amusement, if I desired it—wouldn't you?" she asked suggestively.

"Yes mistress," the vampire moaned reverently, almost fervently.

Her mood seemed to snap, warm façade giving way to the ice below, and her human features hardened into a mask of anger and displeasure. "Go then. Amuse me," she said roughly, shoving his face away from her.

The vampire rose without hesitation and walked to the wall. Removing a torch from its bracket, he touched the open flame to his clothing, and then calmly fitted the burning wood back into place. He gazed adoringly at his mistress as his clothing ignited, material consumed by the hungry flame in mere seconds. She gazed back and smiled as his flesh caught fire, watching his skin blacken and shrivel. His mouth opened in screams of agony, and he convulsed in excruciating pain, but he did not move from the spot where he stood, nor did he attempt to put himself out. His eyes had begun to melt when he finally exploded into ash, but they were still fixated on her.

Rising to her feet, she resumed speaking as if nothing had happened.

"The Slayer is confused, malleable. She can yet be shaped to our purpose. But we need her alone. Angelus must be removed. The questions now becomes…how?" Seeming to forget the two remaining vampires at her feet, she folded her arms over her chest and strode across the dais.

Her attendant, who had remained silently respectful throughout the vampire's questioning and immolation, spoke up at last. "Mistress…"

"Yes, Zhaad?" she asked, calling him by name, something she so rarely did with the others.

He had been one of her favorites for more than two hundred years, and more often than not, when she needed a strong right arm, it was he that she called upon to go forth in her name. But the pile of ash in the corner was a harsh reminder of why he'd never let his status lull him into complacency. He was as respectful, careful and formal with her now as he'd been the day she turned him. It was the reason he was still alive.

"From what we have been able to learn, Angelus seems resolved to stay, mistress."

"Yes," she answered absently, annoyed. "And why does he stay?" she asked, eyes rising to the ceiling, seeming to speak to the walls themselves.

Zhaad hesitated again, uncertain whether or not to interrupt his mistress' train of thought since the question was not directed at him. He risked a glance at her as he replied, "He arrived with the Slayer, mistress. Perhaps she is the key to dealing with him."

She blinked, Zhaad's words striking a chord deep within her. She had known that of course, but she still needed the Slayer… still… she looked at her servant as if seeing him for the first time, her head tilting to one side as if in wonder, or curiosity. "Yes… the Slayer. He seems to have a weakness for Slayers, doesn't he?"

Again she seemed to be speaking to herself, but Zhaad could not hold his tongue against the disgust that rose like bile from his stomach, his voice thick with hatred. "He is unclean, and weak with love. He is the worst of us all. A vampire that loves Slayers…" the vampire trailed off his sentence, letting his expression finish his thoughts on the matter.

Her eyes lit up as an idea struck her. It was so wonderful, so perfect, that her black heart grew giddy with delight; so fitting and simple that she nearly laughed aloud.

She thought she had just the thing to make Angelus want to leave Sunnydale forever.


	13. INTO THE FIRE

CHAPTER 13: INTO THE FIRE

Still this pulsing night  
A plague I call a heartbeat  
Just be still with me  
You wouldn't believe what I've been through  
You've been so long  
Well it's been so long

And I've been putting out the fire with gasoline  
Putting out the fire  
With gasoline

~Cat People, David Bowie

-

 

Angel snapped to awareness, letting go of Faith as she fell away from him. The coppery taste of blood still filled his mouth, tingling as it raced through his veins, filling him with power, healing his wounds. He hadn't tasted blood that powerful and replenishing since—

Eyes wide, he leaped to his feet, his face stricken as he gazed at the fallen Slayer.

"Ponce," Spike muttered snidely.

Angel turned uncertain eyes on him, edging warily closer to Faith. "Spike? What am I… how did we…?"

Spike rolled his eyes. "Unless you brought your Ray-Ban's, I suggest we continue this conversation on the way to your house." He bent to pick Faith up from the ground, muttering. "Great… wake the berk, lose the girl. We'll be lucky if we don't roast alive."

"You going to help me or what?" he asked in annoyance, looking up at Angel.

As if coming to his senses, Angel nodded. "I can carry her."

"Bloody do it then," he snapped in exasperation.

Angel took Faith's weight from Spike and picked her up, holding her slight form easily in his arms. Dark eyes shifting, he regarded the younger vampire quizzically, uncertain of the reason for his continued presence. "Did you save us?"

"No. Slayer took out almost all the vamps on her own, she did. Wish I could've seen it. Sent the last three scrambling home like babies to their mother."

"But… that's impossible… how could she… how?"

"Thick as you ever were," Spike said disparagingly, not really surprised.

Angel stared at him in confusion.

"We'll have to run," Spike commented, looking at the sky.

"We?"

"Be buggered if I'm going to let you run off on your own! Slayer'd hunt me down and put an end to me if I didn't make sure you lived through this."

Angel cut him an odd look, then glanced up at the lightening sky and took off running.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Faith awoke in a bed that was not her own. Disoriented, she sat up quickly and felt pain slice through her right wrist as it tried to support her. She took her weight off her arm and lifted her hand, looking at the bandage on her wrist curiously.

It all came back in a rush: the tunnels, the vampires, Angel—

 _Angel!_  
  
She leaped from the bed and looked down to find herself still clothed in the jeans and tank top she'd worn down into the sewers.

How long had she been here? Where was she?

She looked around again, trying to calm her mind and focus. It seemed vaguely familiar. High ceilings, marble pillars, sparse furnishings, gray stone… had to be Angel's mansion.

That meant he was alive. He had to be…

She pushed past the thick red curtain that covered the doorway, and found herself in the main room of the mansion. Angel sat in his chair by the fireplace, glancing up as she emerged, then leaping to his feet.

"You're awake," he said, unnecessarily.

"Good work, Captain Obvious."

He smiled slightly, looking at her with a relief and joy that seemed unusual on his face. Then, his eyes seemed to darken and he looked away, almost guiltily.

"Are you…?"

"Oh, yeah," she answered quickly—the image of his deathly pale skin and dark eyes—flash of blood-soaked clothing—memory of his fangs in her flesh. "Five by five," she added, putting her hands on her hips and raising a shoulder as if to show how indifferent she was. "Are you?"

"What?" he blurted, not seeming to comprehend. Then, "Oh, yeah. I'm… yeah."

Silence grew long and thick between them. "Well," she said wryly with a roll of her eyes. "I'm glad  _this_  isn't awkward."

"I—I'm sorry," he began. He turned his head away, as if he were ashamed to look at her. "I haven't… I only took enough to—"

"Don't sweat it, Angel," she said easily. It  _had_  been a big deal for her, of course, but there was no way she was going to let him know that. Not when he was already beating himself up over it.

He glanced at her doubtfully and shook his head. "It should never have come to that."

"It's all good," she said with a shrug. Then she grinned, becoming more animated as she went on, "You should have seen the vampire ass I kicked while you were out!"

"I heard," he said with a grudging smile.

She thought about that for a moment, deducing fairly quickly where he'd heard that, realizing there were other things Spike could have told him that she wouldn't have been as comfortable with. Frowning, she glanced around. "Is he still here?"

"No. He took a blanket to get home. We… don't enjoy each other's company very much," he said sourly.

She raised her brows at that—then suddenly, she realized that meant it was daytime. Or it had been, anyway.

"Shit! How long have I been out?"

"All day and part of the night," he said apologetically. "I thought about taking you back to Beatrice's, but…" he trailed off.

She glanced at her wrist and nodded in understanding. "Not the easiest thing to explain, huh?"

He nodded, and she moved to his chair, sinking down in it and shaking her head.

"Damn… Ms. H is gonna kill me."

* * * * * * * * * *

After Beatrice gave her the grilling of her life, Faith fell into bed and slept thirteen hours straight.

When she woke, she dressed and made her way downstairs to find Beatrice with the same cross expression on her face.

"Courtesy of Angel, I assume," she said dourly, handing Faith a small gift-wrapped package. She seemed even more annoyed, if that were possible.

Faith frowned and turned the package over in her hands, wondering what it was, not certain if she should open it in front of Ms. H or not. After a moment, her curiosity got the better of her and she tore the gold paper from it, pulling open the cardboard flaps of the box. Pushing aside the tissue paper within, she drew forth a small metal object.

Silver knot work weaved in and out without beginning or end around a rectangular, veined green stone. It was a pretty thing, though it didn't look very expensive. Nice, but not overdone. She flipped it over and on the back was a pin that identified the odd piece of jewelry as a brooch.

"Where did this come from?" Faith asked, looking at her inquisitively. It didn't seem like Angel to leave gifts, although if she had to guess, something like this would be his style.

"I found it on the front doorstep," her Watcher answered shortly. "I imagine it's his idea of a 'get well' present."

She glanced down, uncomfortable with the sarcastic reference to their conversation last night. She'd had to lie, of course. It was beginning to feel like second nature again. But if she hadn't lied, she risked putting Angel in danger. She could imagine what the Council would do if they had any idea that Angel had fed on her, or even that he'd gotten her into a position where he'd needed to. Defending Angel was starting to feel like a full-time job.

"Ms. H… I told, you. If it weren't for Angel, that vampire would have killed me."

"Yes, so you said," her Watcher agreed, sounding as if she didn't believe a word of it.

Faith dropped her eyes from Beatrice's angry face, looking down at the brooch in her hands. She felt unusually weak this morning, and whether that was due to the blood she'd lost or emotional strain she'd been through, she wasn't certain. She knew that either way, she didn't much like it. She felt off-balance, vulnerable somehow, and she didn't have the strength to go on arguing again as they had last night. She stood in silence, and after a moment, she placed the brooch back in the box and turned to get herself some breakfast.

Beatrice shook her head, softening her tone. "Faith… I know there's more going on here than what you're telling me."

Faith laid her hands on the counter and sighed.

"Need I remind you that you are on probation here? It is of the essence that you share as much information as possible. If you don't start being more forthcoming with the details of your patrol I'm going to be forced to report your insubordinate behavior to the Council."

"Oh, you're going to  _tell_  on me?" Faith asked snidely, feeling her anger well up again.

"They're already questioning me heavily about everything you do, Faith. It wouldn't take much for them to discover your association with Angel, and less for them to figure out that there's something more than simple book theft going on in this town. If they find out you're keeping things from them… I don't know what they might do."

She turned, looking squarely at her Watcher. "Are you  _threatening_  me?"

"Not at all. I'm simply doing my job. In fact, at this point, I'm doing less than my job. Faith," she went on, her reasonable tone taking on a sympathetic note. "I haven't been reporting everything to the Council because I've been trying to give you time to adjust. I feel that you and I have developed something of a relationship, and I know that it will take time for us to build the type of relationship we  _should_  have. The Council, however, won't understand that at all. They expect you to salivate when the bell rings."

"Like the lap-dog I am," Faith added with rancor.

"Oh come now," Beatrice said reproachfully. "Has it really been so bad? I've been a bit hard on you, but you've scarcely had a direct order at all."

"Yeah. It must really be killing you not to order me around like a drill sergeant."

"It's true that my methods are a bit 'hard-assed', as you Americans put it, but I realized quickly after meeting you, Faith, that the normal procedure of giving orders to be carried out without question was not going to work. I know you were forced into this position and that you had no training prior to being called as the Slayer. I also know that you lost your way due to the resulting lack of discipline. I've been trying to instill in you slowly the importance of self-discipline and procedure, without forcing you or commanding you." She shook her head again, looking away. "But if whatever is going on in this town comes to head before we let the Council know that  _something_  is coming… they're going to think that neither of us is doing their job."

"So you're worried about saving your own ass," Faith concluded, gloating. "I knew it."

"There's more at stake here than  _your_  future, Faith. Or even mine. There's the future of the world, itself." She paused, focusing intently on Faith. "Right now, both of us have an opportunity to influence that future. We're not the only two, of course, but we are two of the most important. How we handle our responsibility to the world may at some point determine whether or not the world survives."

Faith's eyes flickered back and forth uncertainly, the fire of her anger dying down to embers.

"The Watcher's Council, methods aside, has a knowledge base more comprehensive than any, and often, it's that knowledge and resource that helps save the world. There's a reason it's always been Slayer and Watcher, Faith; one who contains the knowledge and maintains the pathway to it, and one who uses that knowledge to fight the forces of evil."

Her expression troubled, Faith looked away, saying nothing.

"Think about it," Beatrice said, rising briskly from her chair. "Perhaps after your patrol tonight you'll have a bit more information about these thefts and we can discuss it then."

She walked out of the kitchen, leaving Faith to wrestle with her conscience.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"We need to talk," Faith said earnestly as she entered the mansion.

Angel glanced up from the book he'd been reading, then did a double-take, rising abruptly to his feet, book tumbling from his lap. "What… what is it? Are you okay?"

"Fine, fine," she waved off his concern, barely noticing his reaction as she turned and ran a hand through her hair. "Ms. H and I had a talk today," she went on quickly before she could lose her nerve. Shaking her head, she uttered a cynical laugh. "I'm sure she was using some kind of psych crap on me, but—" She broke off, suddenly noticing the way he was staring at her.

"What?" she asked edgily, suddenly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of his gaze.

As if startled from a trance, he blinked, glanced away, shook his head. "N-Nothing."

She frowned, looking at him a moment longer, then shrugged it off. "Anyway… I wanted to know what you thought about letting her in on what we know."

Now it was his turn to frown. "That means letting the Council in on what we know." He wasn't very fond of that idea, as his tone suggested. He didn't want to trust them with what was going on until… he blinked and his thoughts scattered. Frowning more deeply, he tried to remember what he'd been thinking about, and then forgot that he'd been thinking at all. His eyes wandered back to her face.

"Well, maybe we don't tell her  _everything_ , but—is there something on my face?" she asked abruptly, reaching up to touch her cheeks.

"No," he said, still staring at her.

"Look, I'll pose for pictures later, okay?" she said in annoyance. Looking away from him, she shrugged from her jacket, glad for the excuse to break from the intensity of his gaze. She took a moment to compose herself, hanging the jacket on the back of a chair, then looked back to him. "So, if we can  _focus_  on something besides my face for a second here—"

He walked forward, his eyes fixed on the brooch on her breast.

"Okay, well that's a change of focus," she admitted, muttering.

Self-consciously, she reached up with one hand to touch the smooth stone. "It's… pretty. Thanks for leaving it," she added casually, shrugging and tossing her hair back from her face.

"I didn't leave it," he said, shaking his head and raising his eyes to meet hers.

"What?" she asked, surprised. Startled as she was by his denial, and as many alarm bells as that set off, she was distracted by the way he was looking at her, and she lost track of what she'd been thinking. She had been going to ask him something else... but his eyes… something in his eyes… a light she'd never seen there before. The way he was looking at her…

"I didn't leave it," he said again, stepping closer to her. He tilted his head to the side, seemingly entranced. "Are you doing something different with your hair?"

She blinked, her stasis broken by the odd question, and uttered an uncertain laugh. "You're acting weird."

"Is it so weird?" He looked at her intently, his voice becoming serious, almost hesitant.

"You noticing  _anything_  about me as if I were an attractive female?" she asked with a short, bitter laugh. "Yeah. I'd file that one under 'Mysterious Sunnydale Weirdness'."

He reached out with one hand and touched the brooch, his fingers brushing over hers, and in that instant her fingertips seemed to tingle with energy. For a second, she thought she could hear it crackle in the air between them.

He stepped even nearer to her and she retreated a step backward. "What—what are you doing?" she asked, and the question came out far less sharply than she intended it to. She felt mesmerized, nearly paralyzed, as if she were drowning slowly and finding it… somehow pleasant. The moment felt inescapable, inevitable, like murky darkness surrounding her with warmth, closing in and covering her completely, wrapping her tight in its lethargic embrace, pulling her under, taking her breath away.

He moved his face closer to hers. "Playing coy doesn't become either one of us, Faith," he said, his voice low, almost purring. "We're both creatures of animal instinct and passion, no matter how much we try to hide it. I know you want me—and I want you. Let's stop playing this stupid game of pretending we don't know that."

How long had she waited to hear him say something like that? And though his words sent a shiver of excitement through her, they rang untrue in her head. "What?" she blurted, certain she had heard him wrong. Startled, needing a little distance to think, she backed up another step, feeling the wall behind her, and he closed in on her.

"You heard me," he said, his voice a heated whisper, his lips so close to hers that she could feel the vibration of the words as he spoke them, so close that she couldn't think.

She gazed up at him, caught by his eyes, those deep, mysterious eyes, so warm now, filled with fire as he looked back at her, intently, without fear. For a moment, she was so caught, so overwhelmed that she forgot to breathe, her head tilting up and back, eyes fluttering closed, the warmth of his lips just within reach...

He leaned to meet her and reality crashed down around her again. Planting both hands firmly against his shoulders she shoved him away roughly, pushing herself away from the wall.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded, her voice ragged with anger, rage, passion, and barely restrained desire. God, she was so weak...it was all happening so fast! Confused, she put her hands to her head and spun away from him, trying to clear her mind. Her desire was so heavy, thick and cloying, like smoke coiling around her mind, permeating her senses. She tried to find the thread of her thought, lost it again, then grabbed hold. Right. Angel was going crazy. This could  _not_  be happening.

Wait—was she going crazy, too? Why the hell was she fighting this?

She had barely turned away when she felt his hands on her shoulders again, turning her back to face him. "What you've always wanted me to do," he answered, reaching up to touch her face, fingers tracing down the line of her jaw, thumb caressing her cheek. "Don't deny it, Faith. I know you feel the attraction between us... you always have. What? You thought I didn't know?" he asked with a small smile when she glanced up at him fearfully. "You think I didn't feel it, too?"

She pulled back from him, turning her face from his caress, unable to meet his eyes. "I—I thought you said it was 'just business'," she said, her voice faltering, her mind grasping desperately for solid ground.

"Not anymore," he said, shaking his head. "We both almost died yesterday… you saved my life, and I… I was so afraid. When I thought you might die, I couldn't bear it," he said urgently, leaning nearer to her, his eyes never leaving her face.

She stepped backward, feeling her shoulders meet hard stone, halting her retreat. Something wasn't right here... Angel, coming on to her? To  _her_? She couldn't believe it—it went against all the laws of God, nature and man—and yet, she wanted to believe it. She wanted to believe it with every shattered dream and broken piece of her heart. She felt sick, feverish, anxious, and she knew she wasn't going to be able to be strong enough for both of them. God, she had to get out of here.

She tried ducking under his arms as he brought them up on either side of her, but he was too fast.

Pinned, she lifted her eyes to his, dark depths pleading with him to release her... She'd always wanted him; he was right about that... but she couldn't bear this. What she felt for him went beyond simple physical desire, and if she hadn't known that before they'd gone down into the tunnels, she certainly knew it now. Once she might have viewed this moment as simple fun, pure pleasure, a chance for a casual fuck… now it felt  _dangerous_. It was too intimate, too imminent, too real. Something about him reached deep inside her, touched the core of her soul, and drew feelings from her that she'd never imagined or wanted. When he'd pretended disinterest, denial had been easy... but now...

"Please," she whispered, and suddenly she was no longer sure what she was begging of him.

His mouth closed over hers and what little resolve she still held melted away, draining from her. In an instant, every thought, every misgiving was replaced with a desire so overwhelming and beyond her control that all rational thought ceased.

She kissed him back fervently, her arms coming up to wrap around his shoulders in a passionate embrace, surrendering herself completely to the moment. She felt him grab her upper arms, pulling her up to him, crushing her against him as they kissed; mouths hot and sweet as they explored each other, tongues dancing and twining like lovers.

At last he broke the kiss, and she felt the wall press against her back as he buried his face in the curve of her neck, lips trailing heated kisses down the gently pulsing soft flesh, teasing her with sharp nips of his teeth as he went. She shuddered and moaned, pressing against him, and for a moment, rational thought returned with the thrilling knowledge that she was incredibly vulnerable right now, his vampire teeth so close to the font of her lifeblood. It felt dangerous, intoxicating, forbidden. She wondered for an instant if he felt the temptation, and then she felt his teeth nip gently at the hollow of her throat.

Angel savored every taste of her sweet skin, feeling the pulse of her heart in the hollow of her throat, the smell of her blood so rich, so recent and remembered, so tantalizing, so inviting and near, here where the skin was thinnest. With an effort he resisted the urge to move his mouth back up over her jugular; to let his teeth lengthen and sink into her, to draw pleasure from the very center of her being as he drank from her. He turned the smooth skin of his cheek against her, feeling her heartbeat pulse against him, quickened with desire, and then he slid his face up her neck, nudging his chin against her jaw before moving to claim her mouth again.

She threw back her head, pulling him down to her almost desperately, devouring every taste of his lips, arching her back, molding her body against his, completely lost to her passion. There were no questions now, no misgivings, no inhibitions. The moment was completely as she'd always imagined it, hot and passionate, rough and gentle, tender and yet violent with need.

One of his arms clamped around her waist, crushing her tighter against him as he kissed her, his other hand plunging deep into her thick mane of dark hair. She ran her hands up his back, nails raking lightly, and then slid her hands through his hair, cupping his head on either side as she drew him even closer to her. He withdrew his hand from her hair, caressing the side of her face, fingers trailing delicately down her neck, lightly over her collarbone, coming to rest over her left breast. He cupped it through her shirt, squeezing it lightly, and she gasped as his fingers caught her nipple through the thin material, pinching it gently.

She broke the kiss and drew back, looking at him, putting her hands on his face. Her blood was on fire with wanting him, and yet the tantalizing sensation of his hands on her body brought reality to intrude for a brief moment. God. This was real. All of it. Were they really going to do this?

"I want you, Faith," he whispered raggedly, desperately. "I  _need_  you. I think I…" He hesitated, but he never took his eyes from her, and she watched as the realization of what he was about to say dawned on him.

"I… love you."

Dark brown eyes wide, she stared at him in shock, her heartbeat seeming to falter in her chest. "Don't." She could barely form the word with her numb lips, as if she had forgotten how to speak. Her mind spun dizzyingly, and the passion of a moment ago gave way to something far more consuming, far more real and terrifying.

She twisted and began to struggle against him, feeling only the need to flee now. This was too much. It couldn't be happening like this. It just couldn't. Angel couldn't love her... how could he? She was—

Ignoring her struggles, he took her hand in his, pressing his lips to the healing pink scar on her wrist. "I can't help it," he said quietly. "Any more than you can help loving me."

She stopped struggling and stared up at him in wonder, fear and amazement mingling in her expression.

"I know you do," he went on softly. "I can feel it. Here…"

He pressed her hand against her heart, and she felt her fingers touch the smooth surface of the stone on her breast, felt his fingers atop hers, felt her heartbeat pounding against them, and suddenly, another burst of desire overcame her.

She reached out and pulled him to her, kissing him fiercely with desire and emotion. The tide broke within her, opening every locked door in her mind, and every emotion she'd ever held back, every wish she'd never dared hope for, spilled out in a violent, demanding tumble.

They made love eagerly, tender and rough, bitter and sweet, taking and giving, again and again, cresting pleasure and whispering devotion until at last they collapsed in each others arms, falling fast asleep.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Faith woke with a startled gasp, sitting bolt upright.

 _God, what a bizarre dream_ , she thought, reaching up to rub at her temples. That thought was immediately followed by  _more vivid than usual_ , then,  _damn it's dark in here,_ and then she glanced around and stopped thinking all together.

She sat naked amidst the clothing strewn all over the floor of Angel's mansion. The intimacy, the emotion, the desire of last night all came rushing back, parading through her head in a flood of images the color of flesh. Not able to believe it, she turned as if in slow motion, moving through molasses in her horror, and looked down to see Angel lying naked at her side, his muscular body growing restless without her warmth against it.

She snatched her shirt from the floor, pulling it over her head and shrugging into it, and as she did, she felt something hit her leg and then clink as it struck the floor, skittering away. She looked down and saw the brooch she'd been wearing—the one she'd thought Angel had sent her. Only now it seemed to have aged about a thousand years, its silver knot work turned almost black with tarnish, green stone darkened to a dull, brownish hue. Fascinated, she picked it up between her fingers and held it up to the light.

There was a momentary glow, a tingle of energy through her fingertips, and then the brownish stone lost what little vitality it might have retained, blackening and crumbling to dust. A moment later, its silver setting followed suit.

She heard a rustling movement beside her, and knew Angel was awake.

_Oh, fuck._


	14. QUIET

CHAPTER 14: QUIET

Be ashamed  
Of the mess you've made  
My eyes never forget, you see  
Behind me

Behind me  
The grace of falling snow  
Cover up everything you know  
Come save me from the awful sound  
Of nothing

~Quiet, Smashing Pumpkins

-

 

Angel glanced left, then right, looked down at himself, and then looked up at Faith. It seemed like an eternity that he stared at her, and she couldn't bring herself to speak, couldn't find any glib words to smooth over the moment, and to her grim amusement, she found herself noticing again how handsome he was in the warm glow of the firelight.

"Why am I naked?"

 _He doesn't remember_ , she thought with a surge of relief. She'd been worried she'd have to suffer through some litany about how they'd made a terrible mistake. Their intimacy had been just a little too intimate, despite the fact that it had been some of the hottest—wait—he didn't  _remember_? Her eyes narrowed. "You don't remember?"

"No. I—Oh!" he interrupted himself suddenly, putting his hands to his head, his eyes wide. His expression, so uncertain and grave a moment ago, turned almost comically surprised. He blinked and looked away from her in embarrassment.

"Oh."

His look of surprise deepened into a look of shock, then shifted into horror. As if unable to help himself, he looked back at her in mortified disbelief.

"Oh God."

"He remembers," she said with a nod, voice low.

"I…" he leapt to his feet, belatedly snatching up his pants. She couldn't help but chuckle as she watched him struggle into them, grateful to her morbid sense of humor for allowing her to get some enjoyment out of this awkward situation.

"We…" he went on, seeming unable to complete a sentence, or even a thought, hands hovering as if forgotten at the button of his pants.

"Yeah," she said shortly. "We did." She rose and began pulling on her own clothes. "Five times." The small façade of comfort she'd managed to erect was crumbling rapidly, and suddenly the room itself seemed close in, pressing against her, making her feel claustrophobic. Everything was too close and too tangled for her to deal with it right now. She wanted to get out of there, put some distance between them. Think.

He watched her move, seeming entranced by her actions. "You were… you look…"

She turned and looked at him, frowning, not certain if he was about to compliment her or insult her.

"You're… beautiful," he said, moving toward her.

Instinctively, she stiffened and stepped backward. She had no idea what the hell had happened—or rather, the reasons  _why_  it had happened. She hadn't ever felt like that, hadn't even  _thought_  that she could feel like that. They had made the desperate, passionate kind of love she'd used to read about in her mom's trashy romance novels, shared in the kind of sex and love that didn't really exist. They had been far beyond driven, far beyond emotional barriers. Angel had never been so passionate, and she had definitely never let her emotions run loose during such passion, or at all, for that matter. They had whispered such sweet and naughty words in each other's ears, the kind of words most people never dared to utter, as comfortable and as completely united as two lovers who had been together for years.

He… he had said that he loved her, she remembered suddenly, in shock. How much of it had been real? How much of it had simply been the heat of the moment?

He stepped up to her, smiling tenderly, reaching up to brush an errant strand of hair from her face, letting his fingertips rest against the smooth skin of her cheek.

She stood, mesmerized, staring back into his eyes, stumped by what she saw there.  _Did_  he love her? Maybe it all  _had_  been real. Maybe they'd just been overwhelmed by their feelings in the aftermath of their narrow escape from death… and maybe those feelings had been blown a little out of proportion because of the reminder of their mortality. But that didn't mean they weren't real feelings, did it? There was nothing between them now, nothing to hold them back except constraints of their own mental making.

Maybe she'd been too quick to judge him. Maybe he'd just been as overwhelmed by everything that had happened as she was. She knew was always too quick to judge people, especially men. She couldn't seem to help it. Too many lousy, worthless boyfriends that she'd picked for their emulation of her Father—not the world's greatest role model for Dad of the Year—and predictably, they'd always disappointed her as bitterly as he had, as bitterly as she'd expected to be disappointed, on some level. Angel though… Angel had always been different. Maybe he was—

Fear rose up suddenly, like a great black wall in front of her, sealing her off from the emotion, breaking off her train of thought. Had she lost her mind? What was she thinking? It was a comforting feeling of distance, of numbness, a familiar feeling, and unfortunately, a feeling that was all too weak.

Every argument she could make against men wouldn't hold up when she tried to overlay it on Angel. Every method she had of measuring people fell short when it came to him. It wasn't that he was perfect, or saintly or any of those things. It was that he  _wasn't_. He wasn't, and he knew it, and he suffered with it every day, and yet he still tried to do his best. It was something she understood intimately, something that she wanted to understand so much better. It drew her to him, linked her to him, and she respected and admired him immensely for it even though she would never admit it in a million years. When and how that had turned to love, she wasn't sure, but she suspected it had begun long ago. If she lived forever, though, she would never understand why he was looking at her the way he was right now. She could see the love reflected in his eyes, and though it confused and confounded her, she could no longer doubt it.

The way he looked at her, the way he could make her feel… the way he  _had_  made her feel… the way she wanted him to make her feel… could she really let that go? Would she ever forgive herself if she did? There was enough left of the union they had shared to carry over into this moment, enough to make her believe that it might be possible…

Throwing caution to the wind, she reached up and touched his face, searching his eyes, her own frightened but resolute. The tenderness she saw in him surpassed the depth of feeling she'd ever seen in another human being. This was a man of loyal love and devotion; she'd always known that. She'd seen it with Buffy, had yearned for it for herself. And now he was offering it to her. Something tickled the back of her mind, flickering like a shadow, something about… a soul…? But it was far away and indistinct, and it slipped from her grasp almost before she had a chance to register it.

No more fear.

She leaned up toward him, her eyes fluttering half-closed, and he tilted his head, their lips meeting gently, softly, almost timidly; nothing like their frantic, passionate kisses of before. His hands caressed her face, fingertips touching her lightly, even more lightly than his lips, which trembled against hers like butterfly wings. Gentle… so gentle and warm. Like nothing she'd ever known.

She drew away and looked up into his eyes. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself, preparing to jump in with both feet. Might as well do this as boldly and brashly as she did everything else. Her hands trembled and her voice shook, stomach tying itself in sickening knots and her knees going suddenly warm, feeling as if they might not support her.  _So that's what it feels like_ , she thought distantly.

"Angel, I lov—"

He blinked, his eyes filling with sudden confusion, and he looked around as if he wasn't certain of who or where he was.

No.

Her heart seemed to freeze as he shook his head and closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Oh, no.

His eyes snapped open and he stepped away from her, looking at her guardedly. As if he wasn't sure of her. As if he didn't trust her. "What the hell is going on here?"

Not real.

She spun away from him and ran.

* * * * * * * * * * *

He didn't run after her. He wanted to. In fact, he wanted to far more than he probably should have. In the end, that was exactly why he didn't do it.

He slammed his hand into the wall in frustration, lodging his knuckles painfully in the stone. He yanked his hand free, holding it up before his eyes and closing it in a fist, watching the blood trickle from shallow cuts, running down to his wrist. Even his blood still smelled like her.

He threw his hand away from himself as if he were offended by it, gritting his teeth and growling. Is that why it had happened? Had her blood somehow linked them? Or had he been weakened by feeding on a human after so long and been overwhelmed by his baser desires?

The last time he'd fed on a human, it had been Buffy, and she'd done it to save his life, too. If he hadn't been so pissed off, he might have found it ironic that Faith was the very person who'd almost killed him that time. Afterward, he hadn't felt too much different; healed, a little more aggressive, stronger, definitely, but nothing like the surge of emotion he'd been seized by tonight. Of course, they'd been pretty busy with trying to save the world…

No. This hadn't felt like his demonic side urging him on. His demon side never indulged in emotion, and though he'd wanted her incredibly badly, the lustful union between them had been tempered with a sort of gentle sweetness, a sensuality that he had felt with only one other person.

What then? A spell?

He wasn't positive, but he was fairly certain that this mansion was protected by some pretty powerful magic. He'd done a bit of testing and research with spells, and most of what he suspected had been confirmed when Spike hadn't been able to enter the other day. That, and the fact that the bad guys hadn't beaten down his door demanding their books back—and surely they'd had a clue for a while now—led him to believe that the particular magic cast on the mansion was constructed to keep out anything hostile. It made sense, considering that the energy signatures of Giles and Willow lingered on the edges of the spell. He could easily imagine Buffy asking Willow to seal up Angel's mansion against "evilness" after he'd left, to keep her from ever having to go there again. He could understand all too well that the memories this place stirred for her would have been too painful.

Of course, she'd had them leave a back door in the spell just for him.

He gave a faint, bitter smile for his former lover and wondered what she would think of him right now. Then he sighed and shook his head, pacing the room. It wouldn't do him any good to dwell on that. Besides, he already knew exactly what she'd think. His ass would have been completely kicked by now.

So… the back door… was there any way anything else could have snuck in? He didn't think so. Something already inside, then? Or, he thought, not sure whether to be worried or relieved by the idea, something they had carried inside? It wouldn't be easy, but it was possible to cast a spell on an item, put a few conditions on when to make it trigger so that it didn't set off any alarms on the way in, and plant it on an unsuspecting victim. In fact, in a place this well ensorcelled, it would be one of the only ways to get a spell inside.

"It's… pretty. Thanks for leaving it."

The brooch. That had to be it.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Zhaad hesitated in the doorway to his mistress' throne room, debating on how to present the decidedly odd news he'd just been given.

"Enter," she commanded with a flick of her wrist.

Head bowed, he approached the throne and cleared his throat, deciding where to begin. "Mistress, I've just been informed that the Slayer—"

"Ran from Angelus' dwelling half dressed as if all the demons of hell were at her heels?" she asked, one part confidence, two parts hope.

Forgetting himself, Zhaad looked at her, astonished. "Yes, mistress."

"It worked," she whispered with a grin.

She seemed happy, generously so, and he knew her moods well enough by now to know when he could press her with questions. "Forgive me, mistress, but may I ask why the Slayer ran away?"

She turned her eyes on him, so clear, so blue, so deceptively human. He never failed to marvel at how tiny her form was, how frail looking her mortal shell appeared. She was pretty, the kind of pretty that you could dress up to make unbelievably gorgeous, or leave plain and forgettable. She could be completely feminine and delicate in her movements, yet she could also be aggressive and intimidating, or even demure and shy, should a situation call for it. She had the ability to be completely innocuous, or propel herself to the forefront of whatever situation she desired. He had rarely seen her outside of her own domain, but the few times he had, he had been amazed. She was like two different people. Like several different people, actually. Only one who knew what to look for would notice the power that flowed just beneath the grace of her movements, or the cold, calculating gaze of the predator that lurked just at the edges of her vision. He could see a glint of that predator in her cool blue eyes now.

"Yes, why indeed?" she asked, sounding very satisfied even as she mocked the question. The flickering orange light of torches played over the fine bones of her features, and he thought he could see the touch of a smirk upon her lips. "After all, what could possibly frighten the Slayer?"

He had a few thoughts on that matter, but he said nothing, knowing she would answer when she was ready.

"Do you love me, Zhaad?" she asked instead, her voice oddly curious.

"Of course, mistress," he replied, hesitating only and instant, and then only because she had caught him off guard with the question. It was true. He had not felt the touch of her charms in nigh on one hundred and fifty years, but his feelings for her had never been in question. She had made him that way, after all.

"Does it frighten you to love me?" she asked, tilting her head as if to see him more clearly.

"Of course not," he fairly scoffed, hardly understanding why she would ask him such a thing.

She leaned forward and smiled at him, the vicious, knowing smile of a hyena. "That, my darling, is what makes you different from Faith and Angel."

* * * * * * * * * * *

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

She berated herself as she ran, mind and heart aching with the brutal kicking she was giving them both. Less felt were the pains in her legs, thigh muscles tightening and protesting the unnecessary exertion she was putting on them, her ankles aching with stress, calves pinching with strain. Her breath hitched, hot and sharp in her chest, and she had time to register the pain just before her legs gave out and she fell to the ground in a graceless, tumbling heap.

She lay there on her stomach, brown eyes wide and nearly lifeless as they stared off into the distance, her cheek pressed against the cool, damp grass. She didn't attempt to rise, and her legs would probably not have supported her if she had tried. She felt cleansed somehow by her run, a vessel emptied of thought and thus purified, blissfully ceasing to exist for a few minutes. She lay there, simply breathing, letting the cool of the ground seep into her body, listening to her heartbeat slow. Gradually, she cooled, her breathing becoming regular, the heat of her exertion drained from her. The night was exceptionally chilly for summer, and at last, the only heat she had left to warm herself was the burning fire of hatred in her heart.

Oh, not hatred of others, no. This was the slow, self-destructive burn of self-hatred. Sometimes she felt she'd been born into those flames. Sometimes, she danced gleefully on the coals, others, she drifted above them on waves of rippling heat that didn't burn quite so badly. But she never escaped them.

Awareness returned slowly, and with it, the unwelcome pain of regret.

How could she have believed that Angel loved her? He was a killer, yes, but he'd spent a hundred years trying to redeem himself. He'd fallen in love with Buffy, the golden girl, the noble hero, and he'd loved her for those very reasons. Faith was nothing like her, nothing of those things. She should have known that it was all some colossal cosmic joke on her to pretend, even for one night, that it could be any other way.

She dug her fingers into the damp earth, soil pushing deep beneath her fingernails.

So what had it been? A momentary lapse of reason? A spell? It almost had to be a spell, to get her heart going like this, to open all these unlocked doors in her head, to bring out the soft parts of herself that she'd hidden away long ago. It was still working its magic on her even now, she knew, but somehow, that realization didn't comfort her in the face of her emotions. The outcome was the same. In jail it had been simple to pretend she could mend her ways and change her life, but she would always be who she was. She could never escape it. This ache in her heart was a sharp reminder of what she could never be, what she could never have.

She closed her eyes and pretended they weren't filled with tears, feeling the hurt wash over her.

* * * * * * * * * * *

She wasn't as alone as she believed.

Spike crouched at the wooded edge of the clearing, deep in the shadows of a massive elm, elbow resting on his knee, chin resting in his hand, his eyes far away as he gazed on the crumpled form of the Slayer.

He might have gone to her, but he knew that this was a private moment. His presence would have been an intrusion, no matter if she wanted it or not. He didn't know exactly what had happened, but he could imagine; the disarray of her clothing, the way she had run from Angel's home, the way she had run forever without direction and finally collapsed.

He supposed she'd gotten what she wanted, after all. He was surprised the glowering hero boy had given in to his desires—took his opinion of the midnight avenger up by a few points, truth be told—but he could see that it hadn't ended well. Had Angel decided to have regrets afterward? Would be just like him.  _"I love you! Oh, wait. Sorry, I'm supposed to be tragic. I don't love you."_  Within the darkness, he shook his head, a bitter smile forming on his lips.

 _You're better off, luv._  
  
He watched her, wary of any predators that might fall on her unsuspecting, oblivious form, until the sky began to lighten.

* * * * * * * * * * *  
  


_Earlier the same night, sometime after 1:00 am, on an unidentified highway in the mid-west:_  
  
The car pulled over to the side of the road and tousling her rain-drenched hair, Cherry ran through the downpour to catch up with it. As she reached the passenger side door it opened, revealing a middle-aged man who squinted up and out at her, scrutinizing, as if gauging the level of danger she presented. Probably he didn't pick up hitchhikers very often, she thought.

Putting on her biggest, brightest smile, she flung her purse back over her hip and put her hand on her upper thigh, very conscious of how high the mini-skirt she was wearing had hiked up on her. But instead of smoothing it back down into place, she merely patted the tanned skin of her upper leg, drawing his attention to the short hemline without seeming to.

"Thanks for stopping, sugar," she said cheerfully. "Wet enough to drown a swamp-rat out here."

That did it. The stern look on his face dissolved. "Get in," he said, gesturing.

"Where are you heading?" he asked after they'd pulled away from the shoulder and started picking up speed on the highway.

"Sunnydale. California. You know it?"

"No. I'm only going as far as Nevada, myself. Maybe you can hitch another ride from there." He glanced over to see her response to that and she nodded, watching as his eyes traveled from her face down her body, his gaze seeming to covet her curves.

"See something you like?"

"You're uh… I mean… are you one of those… you know…" he flushed bright red, his hands tight on the steering wheel, eyes deliberately fixed on the road.

"Ladies of the evening?" she asked with a giggle. "Yeah sugar, sure am."

"Oh." He seemed even more uncomfortable now, squirming around in his seat like a rat caught in a trap. "Do you… I mean, would you be interested…" he cleared his throat, managing to regain some of his composure. "I have money."

"Sure thing, honey," she said, lowering her voice, giving it a little breathy whisper. "Why don't we just pull over here?"

He pulled on to the access road, drove back until they lost sight of the roadway, and cut the engine.

"How do we…I mean—" he seemed at a loss, the poor guy, and she took pity on him, leaning over and cupping his face in her hands.

"Give us a kiss," she whispered, and he leaned forward, dry lips meeting hers tentatively.

She wrapped her arms around him and drew him tight against her body, and he returned the kiss with fervor now, becoming excited by her soft curves pressing against him. She smiled through the kiss, thinking how this was always the best part, when they were hard with need and ruled by want of her. The act itself was never as exciting as the prelude, the anticipation of what was to come. She wanted to take her time, draw things out, but it had been too long since she'd last been with a man.

She twined her fingers behind his neck and opened her mouth wide, tongue flicking over the inside of his mouth, and then she drew in a deep breath.

He barely had an instant to register what was happening. He was too lost in the moment, too distracted by his need. By the time he realized he should be struggling, it was almost over. The slight wrinkles in his skin deepened into trenches, diverging and converging in a sudden burst of growth, the skin crackling as it dried like parchment. His graying hair turned white and receded, disintegrating until nothing but faint wisps remained, and within seconds his eyes rolled up and sunk back in their sockets.

Warm and shivering with the stolen soul-energy, the succubus nevertheless sighed with regret as she shoved him out the door. "Sorry, sugar," she said with a little wave, wishing she could have held her appetite long enough for both of them to have some fun.  _Maybe next time_ , she thought, trying to console herself.

Climbing into the driver's seat she started the car, then paused, tilting the rearview mirror down to reapply her lipstick. She hummed along with the radio as she did so, and at last she capped the lipstick and pursed her lips at her reflection.

 _"Don't come round tonight, well it's bound to take your life, there's a bad moon on the rise…"_  she sang along to the music.

"Lookin' good, honey," she told herself with a wink, and then she pushed the mirror back into place, and put the car in reverse.


	15. FAR

CHAPTER 15: FAR

Did you read my mind?  
Or did I fall in one outpouring?  
Never unkind.  
I stopped trusting  
All for nothing.

My Defender,  
Pure is just a word.  
My Defender,  
Cynical and hurt.  
What changes between the covers?  
What secrets are left unsaid?  
What happens when nothing changes?  
Is everything spoiled?  
Is everything dead?

~My Defender, Mesh

-

 

Faith stood at the edge of the cliff face, the toes of her boots hanging just over the edge. She looked down over their black tips and lifted her heels from the ground, balancing perfectly on the balls of her feet. A normal human would have swayed precariously on the tiny point of balance, probably would have pitched forward and fallen to their death on the sharp rocks below, but Faith did not even so much as quiver. Below her boots, hundreds of feet below, she could see the tide as it rolled in, crashing against the rocky shore in a slow, inexorable rhythm, and now she swayed intentionally, gently back and forth, heel to toe, heel to toe, in time with the deep sounds of the ocean. Its depths, so blue during the day, were the smooth black of polished ebony, broken only by the ripples of moonlight that flashed over its surface as it pitched and rolled, lulling her with its ancient melody.

What would it feel like, she wondered, to fall that far? Would she have time to register the pain, or would she die instantly? Would she be smashed against the rocks or impaled by their peaks?

Unbidden, the image of the portal flickered in her mind, and she was seized by the memory of dreaming free-fall.

"You don't want to do that."

Angel's voice, quiet and strong, tugging her back from her reverie. And was that just the faintest note of fear she'd heard? She might have wondered how he found her, but it was irrelevant, really. He always knew how to find her, even when she didn't know how to find herself.

"So whaddaya think?" she asked boldly, without turning. "Far enough down to kill me? I mean, I am a Slayer, after all. I took a dive off a building once and survived." She paused as if thinking about what she had just said, and Angel could imagine the expression on her face as vividly as if she had turned to look at him. "Come to think of it, that didn't work out so well," she added thoughtfully, words laced with dark humor.

"It's not worth it, Faith," he said tightly, fighting the impulse to rush the cliffs edge and grab her. She looked so tiny and waif-like out there, a half-illuminated silhouette against the starless night, dressed in the same black that surrounded her, arms out from her sides for balance, perched on the balls of her feet, hair tossed wildly by the salty, ocean wind.

She dropped her arms and rocked back on her heels, tilting her head up in a bitter laugh. "You mean  _you_  aren't worth it? Tell me something I don't know." She stepped back and turned away from the cliff, looking at him now, and he was not surprised to find her eyes filled with contemptuous amusement. "Don't flatter yourself, Angel. Much as I'm sure it would appeal to your melodramatic nature, I'm not about to toss myself off a cliff for you." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and shifted her posture, seeming to square off against him. "I came up here to admire the view. What do you want?"

The venom in her voice almost stung him, and without being aware of it, he drew himself up to his full height, as if to better absorb the impact of her verbal punches. "I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry for what happened." He hesitated, and in the momentary silence she snorted her derisive opinion on that.

"Sorry for which part?" she demanded abruptly. Then she shrugged and tossed her hair out of her face, trying to defy the will of the wind. "I mean, it was good lay, but it's not like it was my first time. Or even the best."

He didn't even flinch at that. "I'd say it rates pretty high on the scale of intensity for physical and emotional." It was about as close to the truth of the matter as he was willing to get. He still wasn't willing to admit how much it had affected him.

He didn't have to say it though. She could hear it there, between the lines, in what he  _didn't_  say. It had gotten to him, too. She averted her eyes from his and stared down at the rock and pebble strewn ground. This was something else they shared in common, one of the traits that both of them might have been better off without. Neither of them were very open about their emotions when it came to personal matters, or even comfortable with them, for that matter. Yet in the silence that followed, somehow they understood each other completely.

"It was a spell," she said quietly.

He nodded.

"It wasn't real," she added, as if reminding herself. Yet as he looked at her, she lifted her eyes to him again, and though they tried hard to convince him that she was sure of what she said, he could see the question in them. When he didn't answer, she pressed on. "Guess I shoulda known that when you woke up with your soul."

"Wesley… has a theory about magic and the curse. Especially since… what happened with Darla didn't remove it. Happiness is a chemical reaction produced by the brain; a spell can simulate it, but not cause it. Of course," he gave a bleak smile, "the gypsies probably didn't know anything about chemicals. Curses are also more powerful than normal magic. More permanent."

"Right." She folded her arms over her chest and turned her face slightly away, obscuring most of her features in shadow, and he couldn't read her expression at all. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was mourning the fact that he  _hadn't_  lost his soul, and while that was an incredibly stupid thing for her to lament, he also thought he understood why she would. "Just a spell," she summed up again. "So… tell me again why you're sorry?"

"I… didn't mean to hurt you."

"What makes you think you did?" she asked, harshly, flippantly. He could almost hear her defenses going up, windows slamming, doors bolting, her voice rising like an alarm. "We  _fucked_ , Angel. Not really a big deal."

He hadn't said it right. He knew there was no right way he  _could_  have said it. "I think maybe it was." His retort was quiet, but firm, and he met her eyes determinedly. He didn't  _want_  to piss her off, but they had to get this behind them before they could move on.

She stared at him, seeming incredulous, and for a moment there was nothing but the sound of wind between them. "Sorry to burst your bubble babe, but it's not like the earth moved for me. Remember?  _I_  ran out on  _you_? You didn't even—" She cut herself short and seemed to regain her composure, giving him a look he couldn't begin to decipher. "You know what? Screw this. I've got better things  _and_  better people to do." She lifted her shoulders and shifted her stance in that way that telegraphed clearly just how done with this conversation she was, then she turned and started to walk back down the bluff.

He moved with inhuman speed, intercepting her before she got more than a few feet, and she drew up short, her expression stormy, tight-lipped and dangerous. "Get out of my way."

Steeling himself, he reached out with one hand and touched her face, tilting his head slightly as he gazed down at her. "You sure you're done with this, Faith?"

She recoiled from his touch as if his hand were a snake about to bite her, slapping it away with a hard blow. "Don't fucking  _touch_  me!"

"Why does it bother you, Faith? Why are you so angry at me?" he demanded, his voice forcing her to confront the questions. He saw her brown eyes flicker, wrestling with indecision even as they blazed furious anger at him… and then, for just a second, as if against her will, they softened, focusing on him. What he saw in her then ran so deep, so true and pure in its pain that he reached for her instinctively, not thinking of the consequences then, only wanting to touch her, to reassure her, to help her.

It wasn't until he saw the look of betrayal in her eyes, until she shoved his arms away and stormed past him, that he realized he couldn't. It wasn't until then that he realized he'd mistaken the nature of what he'd seen in her. There was no way he could be her support through this.

Stunned by understanding, he watched her run from the bluff, her tiny figure receding into the dark trees below. He had known that there was some emotion between them that was not solely based on friendship, had even suspected it had been heightened by the spell. He had expected that it would all work out somehow. After all, they'd worked around their attraction to each other just fine up until then. But he'd never expected…

Damn… he hadn't realized how much she really cared for him… and he wasn't sure at all how he felt about her.

He stood there for a long time, listening to the waves crash and pondering the depths of his still heart.

* * * * * * * * * * *

It was a night of patrolling like no other. She sought out battles with the skill of a hunting dog, drawing out vampire and demon alike, absorbing every blow they heaped upon her with relish. Mouth bloodied and face bruised, she only grinned and taunted them on, seeming to enjoy the impact of their fists and claws, giving back just as good as she got. She drew out each fight as long as she could, taking each creature near the end of its endurance before killing it, and when she put an end to it at last, her eyes lit up with a feral, triumphant gleam. She was like a wild thing, and Spike appreciated her animal ferocity in a way that very few could.

Fascinated, he tracked her throughout the night, watching as she cut a swath of violent, ugly death through the outskirts of town. He stayed close, thinking that she might need help, knowing that eventually she would tire. But though she stumbled from time to time, missed her mark or moved a little too slowly, she was relentless, unstoppable. Possessed of effortless grace, she transcended remarkable, becoming beautiful as she sailed through the night like a shark, a deadly knife in the dark, cutting down her enemies with skillful aplomb.

He wanted to go out there with her, to join her in that mad, spinning dance of death. It had been far too long since he had cut loose like that. He could imagine their movements in unison, locked together in a spiral of vicious destruction—

He shook his head abruptly and tried to clear the image from his mind. It was too vivid for his comfort, too inviting for his liking. Like as not, she'd stick her stake in him before he'd taken out the first demon. He really needed to have himself a spot of fun before he lost his mind completely and got himself killed.

He watched her spin and dance and weave, and thought she was not as smooth as Buffy had been, but just as skilled. He watched her and he waited, and he wondered.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Faith wiped blood from her mouth and grinned, sending a spinning kick to the vampire's head that laid him flat on the ground. So easy, such a simple thing to pivot, turn, dip and stake. Dust. The rage was so much easier to channel when it left her feeling cold and removed. The aches and pains of her body were a relief compared to the wounds inside. When she fought like this, she could forget about herself for a while, could make the whole world go away; she had complete control of everything in her world.

It was a little like being God.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Angel scuffed his feet in a decidedly un-stealthy manner as he made his way down the streets of residential Sunnydale, hands in his pockets, thoughts far away. Whoever had sent that spell had done it to sabotage them, and sadly, it had worked. Not that he could blame Faith; after all, the spell had created false feelings and released true ones hidden deep inside them both. It was difficult to tell how much of it had been real, how much not, and if he was having a hard time, he could imagine how hard it was for her. He wondered if she'd ever shown a tender side to anyone before. He doubted it. Hell, he wouldn't even have believed she  _could_  show such a side if he hadn't seen it firsthand.

One thing was certain; they couldn't go on like this. He hadn't even begun deciphering the text of the scroll. He'd been far too busy trying to recover from their ordeal in the sewers, then the sex, and now the fallout. This needed to be faced and put to rest, one way or another before they could resume any semblance of normalcy. And before they could do that, he needed to sort out how he felt. He imagined she did, too. There was only one way that was going to happen, and much as he hated to admit it, it seemed the smartest thing they could do for now.

He sighed and looked up, finding that his feet had carried him to his destination without conscious help. He stood there, his decision made, his heart pleading for just one last chance to sway the debate, and cursed the burden of conscience he'd carried for the last one-hundred odd years, like Atlas shouldering the world.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Beatrice was startled from her reading by a knock on the door of the house. Frowning, she rose cautiously and adjusted her glasses, cool blue eyes trained mistrustfully on the door. Faith had gone out less than an hour ago; she wouldn't be back until morning. In any case, she wouldn't have knocked, and no one else knew they were here. Except…

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

* * * * * * * * * * *

In the darkness of the alleyway, Faith paused, holding her breath, stake poised at the ready. It had been a long night already, and it was still early, but she felt like she was ready for anything. Easing back into the shadows, she moved until she felt the cool touch of brick against her back and then went motionless, only her eyes moving back and forth over the length of the narrow, garbage strewn alley.

Seconds ticked by; the orange plastic head of a baby doll grinned up at her idiotically from the inside of a toppled trashcan, and she squashed the urge to stomp on it, forcing herself to wait patiently. She thought she'd heard…

"You really need to get a new hobby," Faith snapped angrily, emerging from the shadows with a scowl.

"Lurking is one of my better qualities," Angel answered dryly. He raised his eyes from the tips of his shoes to glance at her once, briefly, before letting his gaze fall again. Shuffling from one foot to the other, he used the awkward pause between them as a moment to collect his thoughts, gathering his courage for what he was about to say.

"You got a point, stalker-boy?" She shoved the stake in her pants and turned her back on him, kneeling down to investigate something he couldn't see with her body in the way. "Or did you come by hoping for seconds?"

He hated this. It felt like a game to him, even though he knew it wasn't. He'd gone through so much of the same with Buffy toward the end of their relationship; her needing to provoke him to an emotional reaction of some sort, just so that she could feel like he cared, or that she wasn't alone in her misery, or to pass along some of the pain she carried because she couldn't hold it all in anymore. It was a very normal and very human reaction, and from time to time, he'd been guilty of it himself—but he still loathed it. As a tool for making things better, it often didn't work worth a damn.

But if she wanted to play it this way…

"That was the spell," he said.

"Yeah, you know what? Slow as I am, I actually  _get_  that," she replied nastily, something about her tone giving him pause. He wished he could see her face. Wished she would turn toward him. "But tell me again how it wasn't real," she went on cynically. "'Cause I don't think I got it the first ten times."

He debated for a moment, hands twisting inside his trench coat pockets, then shook his head and sighed. Damn, he'd never been very good at playing this. "I don't know if I can," he answered softly, truthfully.

She stopped breathing for a second; he heard the silence clearly, and her form grew even more still than it had been before.

"You don't know?" Her tone was one of astonishment and absolute disgust. She hadn't expected  _that_  answer. She'd expected a simple 'no' to confirm that which she already knew and then she would push on with her life. She didn't want to respond, didn't want to ask, didn't want to know… and yet, she couldn't help herself. "You mean you might… whatever, with me, but you're not sure?" She did stand and turn on him then, her eyes curious and fiery all at once. "How the hell does that work?"

"Faith, I'm human too. Part of me is," he amended. "Am I not allowed to be unsure, or make mistakes? Am I supposed to be some kind of perfect, infallible hero-figure?" His eyes searched hers, seeking understanding. It was hard, incredibly hard for him to find the words, but he knew this needed to be said, now, while there was no pretense between them. He cleared his throat, but his voice was still strained when he spoke. "I—I still love Buffy. I'm still getting used to the idea that she's gone forever. I… don't know if I'm ready to love anyone else. I don't know if I  _can_  love anyone else." His expression grew weary and sad, and he dropped his eyes from hers. "I'm not really  _allowed_  to love anyone else."

"Your soul," she clarified, her mind spinning dizzily. His words had broken through the toughness of her skin and she was too off-balance just then to come up with a stinging retort.

"My soul." He nodded. "Faith, even if I was ready for something like this, what good could come of it? I could never make you happy. All I ever did for Buffy was make her miserable. It would just be the same destructive pattern all over again."

"Buffy wanted a normal life," she countered emphatically. "I just want to be the Slayer. No family, no expectations, no whining about how tough my life is because I wanna be Mary Sue Homemaker, star PTA mom and wiper of runny noses. I don't even know how to cook," she said lifting her arms and giving a short, bitter laugh. In that moment there was an innocent and yet somehow still cynical helplessness about her that he found, despite himself, completely charming. "I want to be the Slayer," she reiterated, and the unspoken addendum to that was that she wanted him to help her. That was as clear to him as if she had said it. What was unclear was whether she meant as a friend or lover. He had a feeling she'd take whatever she could get.

"I think it's better if I just go," he said, his voice low, his eyes fixed meaningfully on hers.

"What?" She was so stunned that she felt the shock jolt through every nerve of her body, traveling from her heart out through every limb, thrumming with sudden pain and adrenaline. "What?"

He turned away, head down. "You'll be okay." It sounded weak, lame, even to his own ears. "I talked to Beatrice. She may not be the motherly type but she's got your best interests at heart. She'll—"

"You talked to Ms. H?" She demanded, her voice rising angrily. Everything was spinning out of control and she couldn't find anything to grab hold of. "You're just going to—to leave me? How long have you been planning this?"

"It's not forever," his voice bordered on pleading. "Faith… it's better for both of us if we just take a break, get some perspective on things. Beatrice has a line on what's going on. I told her you'd bring her all the information we've collected. She'll be able to help you. Like it should have been from the beginning." He shook his head and let out a heavy sigh. "I made a mistake by coming here."

Anger, rage, disbelief, helplessness—they all rose violently within her and tangled together into one great spinning ball of confusion. "A mistake?"

"I should have dropped you with Beatrice and left you to the Council. I thought I could help you more, though. I thought I owed it to you… to Buffy… to me. I thought I could stay and not get involved, stick to the mission. It seemed simple. But it's just like it was before."

She had already stood there far longer than she should have, and she didn't want to be there anymore, but she couldn't make herself move. "Mission?" she asked, and her voice was very quiet, like the calm before the storm. "Is that what I am to you? Some charity you can donate to to clear your conscience?" She laughed. "I don't know about the mission, but you sure stuck  _me_."

"I'm not good for you to be around right now. Look me in the eye and tell me it doesn't hurt to be around me."

She stared directly into his eyes, saying nothing. He tried to read what he saw there, but couldn't, her brown irises hard and removed, her heart completely walled up behind the tight set of her mouth.

"I'll be back," he said quietly, his tone sincere and heartfelt. "I know it feels like you need me right now, but you don't, Faith. You're strong, and someday you're going to realize it."

She hitched up her shoulders and shrugged, breaking eye contact with him at last. He felt more go with the severing of her gaze than a simple stare though; he felt her severing every connection they might have had. "Sure. Fine. Whatever." Her eyes glittered coldly in the fluorescence of the nearby streetlight, and then vanished as she stepped backward into the shadows.

"Faith," he called desperately, hoping to catch her before it was too late.

The sound of footsteps running away was her only reply.

* * * * * * * * * *

She ran like a bat out of hell, trying to forget the sound of his voice, the words he had spoken, trying to forget he had ever existed, shoving all the memories down the poisoned well of her mind. She thought she might run even farther than she had last night— _no don't think about that_ , she commanded herself, pumping her legs even faster. She was so caught up in her own turmoil, ears filled with the sound of recriminations and the pounding of her own footsteps, that she failed to hear anything else around her. When the girl stumbled out of the bushes in front of her, no one was more surprised than Faith, and by that time, it was far too late for her to reign in her momentum.

She crashed into the girl and they hit the concrete in a painful tangling of limbs. Faith only had a second to react, a second to think to ask if the girl was okay, and then she heard the snarl of a vampire behind her.

There was nowhere for her to go. She let it leap on her, grunting as she felt and heard something crack in her ribcage, and rolled away from the girl, wrestling herself atop the creature. It grappled with her, trying to keep hold of her hands, and she squeezed with her knees, crushing the vampire's ribcage between them. It screamed in pain and let go, and in that instant she grabbed her stake and stuck it between two of the creatures cracked ribs, sending it to hell or wherever it was that vampires went in the afterlife.

She leaped to her feet and turned, wondering if the girl was injured.

"Are you—"

The girl was on her feet, eyes wide, nostrils flaring with fear, anger and adrenaline.

"You," was all she said, and there was so much hatred and venom contained in that one word that if it had been a weapon it would have killed Faith where she stood.

_Willow._  
  
_Shit. My night just keeps getting better._

* * * * * * * * * * *

Angel stood in the alleyway and let her go. He could have followed, but what more could he say? Nothing was going to make it any easier, any better. He felt terrible, like a traitor, a coward. When he'd left Buffy he had been sure he was doing the right thing, he knew it would be better for both of them. Two years later and he was just as sure that it had been a mistake. If he'd been there… maybe… but he hadn't, and there was nothing he could do to change that. He would have to carry the maybes, the could'ves and the would'ves forever, never knowing. More regret to add to the never-ending pile of regret he called a life. He had tried to stop the thoughts, had told himself that Buffy had done the only thing she could, that nothing he could have done would have made a difference… but was that the truth, or was it justification? A convenient excuse, a comfort to soothe his guilty conscience?

Faith probably thought this was easy for him, thought he was running away from her just like everyone else always had. He wished he could make her understand that he wasn't, that he did care; he just couldn't be there to hold her up right now. Not while he was being crushed under the weight of his own conscience. He had betrayed not only Faith's trust in him, but his trust in himself, and somewhere deeper, somewhere he didn't like to think about, he felt he had betrayed Buffy. A little time for both of them to get their heads screwed on straight could only help the situation. Right now, his emotions were too tangled, as were hers, for them to even have a decent conversation.

What if he  _was_  falling in love with her? The answers to that question were so multiple and spread in so many directions that he couldn't even begin to track them. They frightened him, made him uncertain, and as long as he felt that way, he couldn't be of any use to her. How could they focus on their mission if they were trying to sort out their feelings for each other? How could they trust each other when they were afraid of what the other might be making them feel? How could he be the support, the anchor, the partner and friend she needed when he was worried that he might be feeling more for her? Or worried that she might be feeling more for him?

 _This is for the best_ , he told himself, trying to silence the whispering of his doubts. It would only be for a little while… a few weeks at most. The bad guy hadn't truly won, and Faith wasn't alone; she had Ms. Hall, and he thought that might make all the difference. She could be good for Faith in a way that he could never be. He'd stop back in soon to check on her, and probably, she'd be doing just fine.

Just fine.

He shouldered the burden of his guilt with familiar ease and dug his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. Lowering his head, he turned his back on Sunnydale and the Slayer for the second time in his life.

* * * * * * * * * * *

e  
__  
  
"Welcome to Sunnydale," read the man behind the wheel of the black Nova, bringing the car to a halt before the sign. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, bronze skin completely smooth until he reached the thick black hair at his temples that pulled away and tied back in a long, neat tail. He eyed the sign again, then ground the heels of his hands against his eyes and wished for a cigarette. Hell, even one of those artsy clove things would have worked for him at that point. With a sigh, he kicked at his nicotine demon, more a ghost after all these years than a creature of any substance, and it went with a muffled yelp. Deciding he couldn't put it off any longer, he reached over and shook his partner awake.

The slender, younger boy sat up abruptly, eyes wide as he sputtered, "Are we there?" He blinked once, sleepily, then looked at the driver. "Is this the place, Tenth?"

"This is it," Tenth answered, his voice tight, eyes meeting the younger boy's meaningfully.

"Do you think we'll find Blackwell?" he asked, too young to keep the excitement from his voice, too old not to temper it with doubt.

Tenth was of the decidedly pessimistic opinion that Blackwell was already dead, but that hardly mattered now. "I don't know, Fox."

"Do… do you think it'll be like the Oracle said?"

"It's always like the Oracle says," Tenth answered grimly. "Always."

They both stared in silence at the blue welcome sign. After a moment, the black Nova drove on toward the center of town.


	16. GRAY

CHAPTER 16: GRAY

Before you judge me take a look at you  
Can't you find something better to do?  
Point the finger, slow to understand  
Arrogance and ignorance go hand in hand

It's not who you are it's who you know  
Others lives are the basis of your own  
Burn your bridges and build them back with wealth  
Judge not lest ye be judged yourself

Holier than thou  
You are  
Holier than thou  
You are

You know not

~Holier Than Thou, Metallica

-  
  


"I don't suppose the fact that I just saved your life might get me a little leeway here?" Faith asked with a weak laugh.

She watched as Willow's eyes went completely black, the effect sending a chill down her spine, and she was already leaping away—she might be tough but she wasn't _stupid_ —when the magical blast struck her, catching her in mid-air and slamming her to the ground.

"Guess not." She rolled onto her side and half sat up, one hand clutching the ribs that had been bruised by her impact. "Ow. That really hurt," she said, looking up at Willow with dawning admiration and grudging appreciation. "You've gotten more powerful since the last time we tangled."

"You don't even want to know," Willow spat, advancing on her.

"So you borrowing a page from my book now? Kill first, ask questions later?"

"Fitting, isn't it?" the redhead retorted.

She heard another rustling in the bushes to their left, and more people stumbled through. Faith's heart sank as she saw Xander, Willow's girlfriend—what was her name—and Xander's girlfriend. Judge, jury and executioner, she thought, and wondered if she'd be able to make a run for it.

"Willow, are you—" Xander broke off, eyes going wide as he saw Faith lying on the ground. His mouth worked like a fish gasping for air, and if the situation hadn't been so dire, she might have actually gotten a laugh out of his expression. But before Xander could even begin to form a comment, Willow began to chant in some strange language, and though Faith didn't understand the words, she definitely got the gist. She'd already wasted too much time trying to talk sense. There was only one way this was going to end.

She was gathering herself for the final leap to take Willow out, one last chance to save her skin before the witch got off that spell, when the blond girl—Tara, that was her name—grabbed Willow's arm and yanked it so hard she spun Willow halfway around toward her.

For a moment, Willow's black eyes flashed red, and Faith wondered if the witch was so far gone that she would incinerate her girlfriend to finish the spell. Then Willow's taut form relaxed, her eyes returned to normal, and her expression was all hurt and confusion.

"Tara, what—"

"What are you  _doing_?" Tara asked, and from the way everyone looked at her, Faith got the impression that Tara didn't speak up very often. The girl seemed shocked, aghast, even, and somehow deeply hurt. "You could  _kill_  her with that spell."

"You—you were gonna kill her?" Xander asked rounding on Willow, and he sounded as shocked as Tara. For the first time since all this had begun, Faith felt a spark of hope.

"But…I…n-no." Willow shook her head, as if lost, uncertain.

"As vengeance goes, it's very unimaginative and straightforward," Anya put in helpfully. Xander shot her a look that was equal parts annoyance and appreciation. Encouraged, she went on, "Perhaps a pestilence spell. Flesh-eating parasites are always good, and if you want to get really creative, there's always mummy rot or—"

"No!" Tara exclaimed, looking from Willow to Anya, then back to Willow.

Willow seemed to regain control of herself, looking at Tara. "You don't know her," she said harshly. "What she is. What she's done! To Buffy. To  _all_  of us." She turned her eyes on Faith with an anger that made the Slayer shiver. She remembered the bookstore, when she'd gone out to talk to Willow, believing the red-headed girl to still be a hero at heart, believing that she might listen to Faith and give her a chance. She thought that it was a damned good thing she'd waited too long, because what she recognized in those eyes was all too familiar to her. She would recognize that murderous glint, that burning, all-consuming hatred anywhere.

"Then we let the police deal with her," Tara admonished, her voice shaky but still righteous.

"The police couldn't deal with her—"

"The Council then," Xander broke in, seeming desperate to come up with a solution. "By the way, does the Council know you're out?" Xander asked sarcastically, turning to look at Faith. His voice was caustic but it still betrayed his fear and uncertainty; she could hear it clearly even as he went on to make what he probably considered a joke. "'Cause last I heard all they had planned for you was a one-way ticket to hell."

And she couldn't help it. It was like a reflex, it was so instinctive and automatic. She was on the ropes, her life probably hanging in the balance despite Tara's interference, and still she couldn't reign in the urge to mock them all, to make them eat their words.

"Council sprung and sponsored," she answered, spreading her arms wide, unable to keep the ironic smile from her face.

There was a moment of stunned silence as they processed that, and she watched the expressions shift on their faces as they figured out what it meant, exactly.

" _You're_  the new Slayer?" Willow fairly sputtered in outrage. She was so offended that she couldn't seem to find her voice for a moment. "What? You think you can just come here and take—take Buffy's place?"

The question hit Faith like a stinging blow, bringing home the reality of the situation—and wow, wasn't  _this_  one bitch-kitty of an emotional roller coaster? For just an instant, she saw everything through their eyes; Buffy's death, their struggle to make sense of it all, their mourning, their offense and shock at discovering that one of their most hated enemies had returned to take their friend's place. She could see it all and she completely understood. "Willow…" she struggled with the words, unfamiliar as they were to her. "For what it's worth, I—I'm sorry."

"You're  _sorry_?" Willow uttered a disbelieving, indignant laugh, and then her face went deadly serious. "Get out of Sunnydale, Faith. If I see you again—" She didn't even finish her sentence. She didn't have to. Turning so suddenly that she nearly knocked over her startled girlfriend, Willow stalked through the bushes and was gone.

The others eyed her warily for a moment, then slowly, they began to fade back into the bushes. Xander lingered a moment longer after everyone else had disappeared, his back pressed against the damp green hedgerow.

"I hope you don't think just because Buffy's gone you can come back and wreak vengeance on the rest of us."

"That's not why I'm here," she said very seriously.

"It better not be, or I'll kill you myself." He gave her a last, penetrating look, then stepped into the greenery and was gone.

She hung her head and sighed deep, closing her eyes. She didn't know what the hell had happened in Sunnydale in the last two years, but the Scoobies had gotten a lot tougher and darker since the last time she'd seen them. Xander might not be strong enough or quick enough to make good on his promise, but she knew without a doubt that he'd meant what he said. If she got in their way, or crossed them, he'd kill her if he could.

"Well, that went well," she muttered to herself, pushing up from the ground.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Some hours later, bruised, beaten and soul-weary, Faith let herself quietly into the house.

"Faith?" Beatrice called curiously from the kitchen.

Damn. She'd been hoping Ms. H would be out, or asleep, or whatever it was that she usually did while Faith was gone all night. She should've known her Watcher would be up waiting. After all, it wasn't like she had much else to do.

"Yeah, it's me."

"You're home early," Beatrice said, making both a statement and a question of the words as she came around the corner into view. Blue eyes peered curiously at Faith from behind round-rimmed glasses, and damned if Faith didn't think she saw just a modicum of concern there, too.

"Yeah," she said shortly, shifting uncomfortably inside her jacket, not sure what else she should say.

"Did something… happen?"

Bitterness swelled inside her suddenly, smashing violently through the dam she always tried to keep around her emotions. It rushed from her in an acidic torrent, bent on demolishing everything in its way. "Well, Angel took off and the Scoobies damn near killed me, but I did manage to off six vamps and one K'alish demon, so  _that_  makes everything all good. I mean you only care about the reports and the numbers for your neat little orderly files, right?"

"Faith." Her voice managed to be somehow reproachful and apologetic at the same time, and Faith wondered if the British took special classes on how to cram that much expression into as few words as possible. "I'm sorry about Angel."

She clenched her hands into fists and tried to stuff her anger back into its cage. She did  _not_  want to talk to this woman about Angel, especially about how sorry she was that Angel was gone, when all she'd done was bitch about him while he was here. "Wow. Are you pretending to care? 'Cause for a second there I almost got all misty eyed."

"I know it's hard for you—"

"What the hell do you know?" she retorted, her anger bordering on rage. "You sit here and read your little books and give me orders and take down my numbers like some kind of—machine! You're so perfect with your education and your suits and your holier than thou attitude. If the world were about to end you'd probably be too busy cataloging the raining toads and swarms of insects to give a damn about saving your own uptight ass."

"Swarming insects are not a sign of the apocalypse," Beatrice corrected calmly. "That's a popular misconception propagated by the Bible."

"Good to see that you were paying attention," she snapped with an exasperated roll of her eyes.

Beatrice eyed her rather indignantly, arching an eyebrow. "Sit down, Faith."

"No."

"Fine. Don't sit. I can say what I need to just as well with you standing." Still the picture of composure, Beatrice stepped to the side of the foyer, into the sitting room, taking a seat in a high-backed chair. She folded her hands primly in her lap, regarding Faith seriously from her lower vantage point. "Things are going to be different now that Angel has gone. You're going to be relying on me a lot more heavily than you'd probably like."

"As if," she snorted, tossing her head dismissively, not even bothering to look at Beatrice.

"You need me," Beatrice stated plainly. "If you feel you don't, then you are welcome to try and go it alone. Perhaps this time they'll give you the chair instead of a shortened sentence."

"You think I can't do this without you?" The question came out nearly as a threat. It pissed her off, the way people were always so smug and sure she could never do anything except screw up. That she'd be lost without them. She'd gotten enough of that shit from her parents and her boyfriends to last her a lifetime.

"As I said, you are perfectly welcome to try. However, I think you'll find your life much easier if you use the resources available to you." She considered Faith's angry countenance, then sighed. "I can see you're not going to hear a thing I say until we've covered all the emotional buttons. Very well. These 'Scoobies' as you call them, have no bearing on your life. They carry on the mission, but they are not part of the mission.  _You_  are."

"Nice try, Dr. Self-Help. No cookie, though. I could give a shit for the Scoobies,"

"Couldn't you?" Beatrice asked challengingly. "You certainly seemed upset about it a few moments ago. They're soldiers, Faith, playing at war since their General has gone. You are the General now, and that frightens them. With good reason, considering your actions in the past," she allowed as an afterthought. "But they  _are_  irrelevant. You must prove to yourself that you can live up to the responsibility on your own. In the end, your own conscience is the one you must answer to."

"You still think you can get inside my head with this crap, don't you?" she asked in disbelief.

"Angel," Beatrice continued, ignoring her interruption, "is much the same. He fights the battle, and has his own part to play. It is quite different and separate from your own, however. It is certainly not as your mentor, and I question his status with the Powers That Be that he even assumed a station so lowly."

"I don't know. You seem to like being 'lowly' okay," Faith needled.

" _My_  station is to serve as your mentor. It is an important role, but not so important as the one Angel will play in the future, according to the prophecies. I accept that. I do not question my duty, because it is the one I must fulfill. You would do well to do the same, since in the role of Slayer, you will be called upon to play just as important a part."

Faith felt a tiny sliver of what Beatrice was saying slip through her mental armor. It lodged in her mind and stuck fast, sending her train of thought down paths she would have rather left unexplored. Part of her wanted to be that important, wanted the weight of the world balanced in the palm of her hand, but another part recognized the danger in that, the danger in herself.

"Although, in some ways, you have an even clearer vision of what the Slayer is than Buffy ever did."

"What?" She was completely floored by this unexpected turn in the conversation. No one had ever compared her to Buffy and come up in Faith's favor on any front, and Beatrice was the  _last_  person she would expect that kind of sentiment from. "You didn't even know Buffy," she accused uncertainly.

"I know what I read in the files. I know that she sacrificed herself where it was unnecessary to do so."

"How did she die?" Faith asked, and though her anger had momentarily fled in the face of her surprise, the question still came across as belligerent. She hated to ask, hated to give this conversation any more mental credit than any other session of droning instruction Beatrice gave her. But she'd never had the opportunity to ask, and no one had ever told her. Beatrice was the only one that it wouldn't be too painful for, most likely.

"No one told you?" Her Watcher blinked owlishly. "Her sister's blood opened a portal to multiple dimensions, and all of them would have converged into one had the blood not stopped flowing. One wonders, of course, why she didn't try band-aids," Beatrice commented dryly. "But be that as it may, rather than give her sister, whose life was inconsequential, she gave herself, being of the same blood, and closed the portal, thereby saving the world."

Faith was stunned by the revelation. The portal, the feeling of dying, of being set free; it all made sense now. Buffy had sacrificed herself to save the world rather than let her sister die. On the surface it seemed as simple as that… but there had been something more in her dreams, a feeling that didn't belong to her that she couldn't quite put a name to. Despite herself, she was drawn in by Beatrice's explanation. "She saved her sister's life, and you think she made a bad decision?"

"Of course," Beatrice answered mildly. "The girl had barely been human for a year, her death would have meant nothing. The fate of the world depended on Buffy, especially since you were in prison. And she went willingly, anyway."

Faith didn't understand the stuff about Dawn only being alive for a year, but she rolled with it; it was irrelevant anyway. "Maybe she just couldn't take it anymore," she said with a shrug.

"Perhaps," Beatrice agreed with a nod. "But Buffy was filled with noble, emotional ideas that didn't always hold up well under scrutiny. You, on the other hand, have always understood that it is the Slayer who is the law, and who must get the job done, and who must survive, no matter what the emotional cost. That does not extend to being a renegade, or a criminal, but it does encompass certain gray areas of the moral center."

"Yeah. You know, if I'd gotten anymore gray, I would've evaporated."

"No. You turned black. But you've learned since then. You would love to be able to afford the innocence and ignorance of Buffy if you could, but you can't can you? You long to be the noble, self-sacrificing hero, but you see the wisdom in placing yourself before others. You see the importance of your role."

Faith looked down, avoiding her Watcher's eyes. It was true. On one level, she'd never understood Buffy's self-sacrificing attitude, but on another, one she had never quite acknowledged, she had longed to understand more clearly. After all, she was the Slayer, and didn't that make her life more important than anyone else's? Everything Buffy had ever said rang true on some level, but everything Beatrice was saying now related far more to who she really was. But wasn't who she was wrong? Isn't that why she'd ended up in jail? She shook her head slowly, confused.

"I understand you, Faith. I know you far better than you give me credit for. I can help you, if you'll only let me." She studied Faith quietly for a long moment before continuing. "Those who can afford passion are rich. We are poor, Faith. We have only the crude instruments given us by fate and intelligence and skill. We have a higher mission that must be fulfilled, one that does not always adhere to the ideals of a noble hero. We are warriors, we are judges; we are executioners when necessary. We do what we must that the world might survive. And that means we must do what others cannot bring themselves to do. Such a life does not lend itself to extremes; what Buffy believed was too white, what you believed, too black. The truth lies in shades of gray."

"Is that a fancy way of saying we get to do whatever we want? 'Cause you know, that didn't work out so great for me."

"It's not about looking out for ourselves. You and Buffy have both used your powers selfishly. The balance is somewhere in the middle, realizing your importance, doing what you must to fulfill your mission and letting nothing get in the way, without becoming a loose canon or needlessly endangering your own life. A good soldier does only what he must."

"Yeah, well I'm not exactly what anyone would call a model citizen."

"There's hope for you, Faith."

Surprised, she raised her eyes to meet her Watcher's; taking a long hard look to be sure the older woman wasn't playing some kind of joke on her. "You think?" Her voice conveyed cynicism, skepticism and just a touch of true curiosity.

"Of course I do. I wouldn't be here right now if I didn't believe it. Neither would you," Beatrice added matter-of-factly. Giving Faith the faintest glimmer of a smile, the Watcher rose from her seat. "Get some sleep. It's been a trying night for you. Perhaps everything will seem better in the morning and we'll talk more then."

 _I'll be damned_ , Faith thought as she nodded and made her way upstairs.  _Maybe the Ice Queen has a heart after all_. Okay, maybe saying she had a heart was taking things too far. But it was something.

It was more than Angel had left her with.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Willow walked so fast she was practically jogging, the others struggling to keep up with her. They had reached the house everyone still thought of as Buffy's before she slowed her pace, heading directly upstairs to the room she and Tara shared.

"I can't believe it," Willow raged, throwing open drawers and tossing out spell components.

"I know," Xander agreed, slightly out of breath as he leaned against the doorway, glad for a chance to rest at last. "Faith as the resident Slayer… I mean, hello? Karma?" He stepped inside so that Tara and Anya could follow, and Tara stopped just in front of him, her eyes still angry as she turned them on Willow.

"What are you doing?" she asked in her low, soft-spoken voice. But there was an undercurrent of strength to it now, a thread of steel that rendered her presence un-ignorable.

"We've got to do the spell," Willow said quickly, her voice resigned yet pleading with them to understand.

"Whoa, whoa, wait. You mean the Soul Train spell?" Xander asked.

"Xander—" Exasperated, she threw down the herbs she'd been inspecting and turned turbulent hazel eyes on him. "It's  _Faith_. She's evil. We can't just let her run loose again. We need Buffy back."

He fidgeted uncomfortably, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. "I'm on board with the Faith's evil theory, but she did say the Watchers Council sprung her."

"Oh, and I'm so sure she was telling us the truth, 'cause Faith would never ever lie to save her own ass," Willow spat sarcastically.

"Willow," Tara spoke up again. "What if she  _was_  telling the truth, unlikely as it may be?"

"So what if she was?" Willow exploded. "Look, we all agreed that we needed to bring Buffy back, no matter what. Faith just makes it so that we have to do it sooner. Even if the Council did get her out, she'll turn on them, and then what are we going to do? I'm the only one with enough power to take her out—maybe not even enough—and you didn't seem too on board with that idea tonight."

"She wasn't a  _threat_  tonight," Tara objected. "If she becomes one then we—"

"Then it'll be too late," Willow said gravely. "Tara, you don't know her. You don't know what she's capable of."

Tara just stared at her lover, completely at a loss for what to say. Buffy's death had changed Willow so much… she had stepped into the leadership role with hardly a ripple, and at first it had all been working well. But then the desperation to bring Buffy back, the growing resentment with everyone for disagreeing with her, the marked increase in her power and the carelessness of its use. It was as if she was forgetting all the principles magic was based on, forgetting that magic did not make her automatically right.

"She's right," Xander spoke up reluctantly, adding his agreement to Willow's statement. "If Faith decides to turn, we probably won't know until after the knife's already in our backs."

Tara looked at Xander as if gauging the sincerity of his words, and then looked down at the floor, thinking. If Xander was agreeing with Willow, then there had to be something to the threat of this Faith girl. Xander had been the most stalwart of them against using this spell, and now it sounded as if he were considering the idea as a real possibility.

She looked again to her lover, saw the grim, resolute expression on her face. How she wished to see Willow laugh again, to see that sparkle of happiness in her eyes, to see the lightness of her heart come through in every gesture and word. Willow had walked around as if the weight of the world were resting on her shoulders since Buffy had died, and Tara supposed, in a way, it had been. She had severe misgivings about bringing Buffy back, but if it would make Willow happy again, if it would keep them safe… maybe it was worth the risk. And maybe, just maybe, if they succeeded, it might keep Willow from crossing the line she was so rapidly approaching.

She lowered her eyes, blond hair slipping forward to cover her face as it so often did, and nodded, wrestling with her heavy heart all the while. "O-Okay."

"Well, I'll be glad to have Buffy back," Anya said, speaking up for the first time. The others looked at her in mild surprise. "What? Why are you all looking at me like that?"

"Well," Xander said carefully. "It's just… You guys weren't really all that close. And you did get annoyed at each other a lot."

"Yes, yes. And I often complain that all this patrolling she left interferes with my nightly money counting," she said impatiently, as if it were of no consequence. Then, more uncertainly, "That doesn't mean I can't miss her, does it?"

"No, An. It doesn't," Xander said almost gently. Then he shook his head, exhaled harshly and turned his face toward the ceiling. "I can't believe we're doing this."

"Okay, then," Willow said, letting her eyes travel over them, resting on each of them briefly. "Tomorrow night, we do the spell."

She bent and rummaged through her drawers again as if searching for something, so that she wouldn't have to look at them anymore. So that they wouldn't see the fear and doubt that suddenly filled her.

 _Could_  she do this?

They were going to find out.

* * * * * * * * * * *

e

 _Slightly later the same night, 3:02 am, a Sunnydale alleyway_  
  
A few hours before dawn, Eddie carried the trash out the back door of the bar, throwing open the grimy green lid of the dumpster with a metallic bang that startled him despite himself. He glanced around warily, trash bag held stiffly out from his side, heart thrumming with startled adrenaline, reminded that the back alleys of Sunnydale were not the safest place for its residents. Or even the main streets for that matter. A few moments passed, and when the alley decided not to retaliate against the intrusive sound, he took a deep breath, sighed, chuckled a bit at himself, and then threw the bag of garbage on top of the heap.

He was still smiling faintly when he put his hands on the lid, about to lower it quietly closed, and paused, his nose wrinkling against the putrid, rotting smell that wafted up from the dumpster. He'd done his share of carrying out the garbage in his time, starting when he'd been a lowly dishwasher here, and against all pride, he still insisted on carrying it out, even though his name now resided on the deed. And for all the garbage he'd carried out in his life, which by now probably equaled tons, he'd never smelled anything quite so organically rotten and offensive as this. You didn't get to the ripe old age of your early forties around this town without learning a few things… but there was a difference between being aware and actually being taught a painful lesson on just how real the dangers were in this little town. Maybe that was why he hesitated, even though he knew better.

It smelled like something had died in there.

That realization was followed by the urge to let go of the dumpster lid and run back inside as fast as he could, and his mind agreed that sounded like a very sane suggestion.  _Very, very sane, thank you very much, I'll just be going now,_ he thought to himself. But he stood rooted to the spot, frozen by fear, fascination, and a sickening need to know.

He pushed the lid back up and reached out with trembling hands, shoving aside the dark green and black plastic, shiny bags, all fat and fit to burst with their unsavory treasure. The image was not a pleasant one, and for some reason it made him think of fat, shiny beetles, bloated like—

The girl's eyes were wide open, staring flatly up and out at him, two black pearls that had lost their shine, lackluster and strangely out of place against the pale purple tint of her skin. She had been pretty before, movie-star or model pretty, and her skin was only just beginning to mottle with the first signs of decay, dark spots dotting the curve of one high cheekbone like pockmarks on a plague victim. He gagged helplessly at the sight and smell of her, but even that wasn't the worst of it.

He supposed he should have been grateful to find her with her mouth closed, after all, it would have been far, far worse to find her with old coffee grounds, or worse, bugs (beetles?) filling her open mouth like some kind of dank, rotting dump. That would have been worse, yes.

Except that her mouth was stitched shut.

The laces were wide, and sewn in with care, and God help him, it looked like she'd still been alive when it had happened, because the stitches at the bottom had pulled gaping holes in the flesh of her chin, as if she had tried desperately to force her jaw open. Tiny dark colored spots that might have been blood had dried around the holes, and…what was wrong with her body, a small, detached part of him wondered? His mind screamed at him to look away, but he couldn't seem to tear his eyes from her grisly countenance, stuck fast by the same fascination that strikes spectators of fatal accidents. Were those stitches on her neck…?

His stomach rebelled at last, and he fell to the ground, vomiting, heaving and God, even stale, greasy alley air tasted better than the air around the corpse.

He lay there for a few minutes, weak and twitching, no longer concerned about what might decide to wander into the alley with him, and tried not to think too deeply about why someone would go through all the trouble of cutting the poor girl's head off and then sewing it back on.

Backwards.


	17. IGNITION

CHAPTER 17: IGNITION

If I could heal myself  
Where would I begin?  
I really wish I had a shoulder  
I'd try and climb from this hole I'm in  
This is easy  
This is easier

Locked in all alone here  
Fate is in my fingertips  
There isn't anyone that can hold me here  
Do you think this is courage?  
Does this make me brave?  
It's just a consequence of the easiest choice that I've made

This is easy  
this is easier for me  
Than to pretend that this will ever get easier for me

~Fingertips, Tapping the Vein

-

 

Faith swayed her hips in time with the music, arms poised above her head, occasionally running a hand through her hair. It always got her blood pumping, dancing in a crowd like this, feeling the music thump and thrum through and around her, letting it inside her like a living thing to possess and guide her. It was the closest she ever got to giving up control. She looked up at the guy she'd been dancing with most of the night through half-lidded eyes, glorying in the slow, delicious seduction of him. He was like putty in her hands, waiting to be shaped, and she could smell the sweat and excitement rolling off of him in waves. He was young, and hot, and she wanted him so badly she could hardly wait.

Straddling one of his legs, she rotated her hips as she danced up, bumping his hip with her pelvis and grabbing his waist. He locked an arm around her waist and they gyrated together, grinding, Faith smiling at him provocatively. When he ran his hand down over the curve of her ass, she reached back and grabbed his hand, spinning out of his grip and leading him from the dance floor.

It was hard to believe that Angel was gone, even harder to believe it had only been a day since he'd left. She'd been left with a feeling of trepidation, of solitude and emptiness. Like an itch she couldn't quite reach, it twitched annoyingly, sending sparks of pain through the void in her heart, and by the end of the day she'd been as frustrated and maddened as a dog chasing its own tail. Once night had fallen she'd begun, and nearly succeeded in, convincing herself that none of that mattered at all. She was just wound up, tense, and it really wasn't any wonder. After all, she hadn't hit a decent party in at least a year. Deciding that it was high time, she'd donned the skimpy black dress and headed to the Bronze.

She'd hit the dance floor in a frenzy, and as if sensing her need, the men had started circling like sharks. She'd given each of them a turn to dance with her, teasing and taunting them all, until at last she'd narrowed down her selection to the dark-haired, pretty college boy.

She pulled him out into the back alley and pushed him against the wall, kissing him hard. He tasted like whiskey sours and smelled like cigarette smoke, and she reveled in the taste and scent of him, running her hands all over his body. She wanted him, needed him so badly that it was like a fever, and reaching down, she deftly unfastened his jeans, not wasting any time on foreplay or protocol.

Surprised, he drew away, breaking the kiss. "What…?"

"Shut up," she ordered, and pressed her mouth to his again, cutting off whatever he was about to say.

There was a brief moment of fumbling with the condom, and then she lifted the short skirt of her dress, pulling the thin cover of her panties aside. With one arm around his shoulders, she pulled herself up on to him, hissing with pleasure as she felt him enter her, sinking slowly down his length. If he had been hesitant a moment before, he moaned and grabbed her eagerly around the waist, then, and she wrapped her legs tight around him, using them for leverage, sliding up and down around and against him as her hips undulated wildly. She grabbed him by the shoulders and took him hard and fast, so hot and quick it was almost brutal, and she came almost as soon as she finished the second stroke, biting down on his shoulder to stifle her cry, nails digging into the flesh of his back through his shirt and leaving dark crescent-shaped bruises. A few moments later, he stiffened and moaned with his own release, his arms tightening around her.

When it was over, she let him slide from her and pushed away from him, landing on her feet. As if they'd done nothing more than complete some kind of business deal, she straightened the hem of her dress, ran a hand through her hair as if to tidy it, and gave him a dazzling smile. "Thanks," she said with a wink. "I needed that."

"You mean… that's it?" he asked, seeming dumb-founded. Poor little pretty-boy brain probably couldn't handle being used and then dumped inside ten minutes, she thought.

"What do you want? A ring?" She raised her brows, both in question and in challenge, and when he simply stood there, she smiled a final time and then walked off down the alley.

* * * * * * * * * * *

She got a few blocks away before the ramifications began to set in.

 _Slut. Whore._  The accusations fired to life loudly in her mind, and she tried shoving them to the background, tuning out their voices as she'd done for the last seven years, ever since the first time she'd had sex. But they didn't go as easily now, those black, malignant whispers shot through with the vibrant red of self-hatred. Like claws they raked the surface of her brain, tiny lines of fiery pain leaving their mark on her. She shook them off, soothing the resulting scratches with the balm of power and satisfaction, and trampled clumsily over her guilt in the process.

She felt empty inside, a hollow kind of ache edged with poisonous thorns that stabbed and bruised and tore at her soul, making it swell with poison and pain until it was mad with rage and too large for her to hold. For a moment, the college boy had filled that void within her, had made her forget that it existed… and then, when he was gone, it had grown even larger. Every time she tried to fill the emptiness in her heart, it only grew bigger, more consuming. The more she fed her anger, the hungrier it became. Right now it was a trapped animal, but soon, she knew, it would break loose and take control of her.

 _Just like old times._  
  
"That bloke's going to have quite the story to tell his mates tomorrow," came an appraising voice from behind her.

She spun, a cynical smile twisting her ruby-glossed lips, hands on her hips. "You were watching?" she asked, sounding both surprised and pleased. She sauntered up to him, running one finger down the buttons of his shirt. "Is that how you get off? Watching?" she asked, her voice a sultry whisper.

Spike fought the urge to back up a step, caught off-guard by her reaction as he was, and the expression on his face grew more serious, more intense, her touch stoking the fires that always burned inside of him. He had just watched her use that boy back there like a living toy and then toss him away, and it had been damned hot.

"What do you say, blondie?" she whispered, moving her mouth close to his, eyes heavy lidded. "You want a turn?"

He was damned tempted. The demon in him raged and paced and roared, rattling its cage, demanding to have this appetite, at least, fulfilled. But despite his sudden, overpowering need, despite the fact that he could smell the heat and sex on her, he hesitated. Something about this whole scenario didn't feel right. He'd expected to find her sullen and sulking in Angel's absence. He'd certainly never expected to find her coming at him with open arms and legs, seducing him with this sultry siren persona until he'd forgotten who he was or why he'd come. And then it hit him.

"Oh, I see," he said with that grand air of mock-discovery he possessed, and made a small, knowing noise deep in his throat. "You think if you shag everyone you meet hard enough you'll get Angel out of your head, don't you?" His face wore the sly look of someone discovering a nasty secret. "Well, count me out for the rebound train, luv."

He paused, seeming to think about that, then lunged forward, grabbing her around the waist. "Ah, who am I kidding?" He leaned to kiss her and she shoved him away so hard that he stumbled backward over several trashcans. Caught off guard, he shook his head and leapt to his feet indignantly, his face dark with sudden anger. "What the bloody hell?"

She grinned at him impudently, at once siren and Slayer, and tossed her long, dark hair over one shoulder. "I'm a tease, what can I say?"

He sputtered surprised laughter and shook his head. "Oh, you're a real piece of work, all right," he agreed, and the way he said it didn't sound very flattering. "Struck a nerve there, did I?"

"You wish." And the way she said it rendered his question a mere naughty request, taking the sting from it even as she retaliated.

"Right. My mistake. You're just fine." He put his hands in his pockets and looked her up and down again as if seeing her for the first time. "So tell me again why you're shagging witless college boys in back alleys and dumping them while the condom's still warm?"

"For fun," she shot back in a "why else?" tone of voice, giving him a shrug and a knife-edged grin.

He blinked and then smiled despite himself. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "back in my big bad days, I  _might_  have even liked you." He glanced heavenward from beneath raised brows as if debating that, then looked back at her, answering his own thought with a definitive, "Hmm… No."

"Wouldn't you?" she asked, giving him an appraising look. She walked closer to him, hips swaying suggestively beneath the brief length of her skirt. "I bet you would," she said, placing one finger over his lips when he opened his mouth to retort. "Haven't you always wondered what it's like to fuck a Slayer, Spike? I bet there's nothing else like it on earth. Even better than killing them, I'd bet…" she blinked and then tilted her head sideways at him. "Unless you already know…?" she trailed off suggestively.

He shoved her hand away roughly, the impact of clattering trashcans still fresh in his mind, anger surfacing above his reluctantly increasing desire.

"You know, if I was still able—"

"But you're not," she cut him off with a dark smile. "Tell me, how's that identity-crisis coming along? Must suck, just sitting around on your ass, thinkin' about your glory days, curbing all those violent tendencies." She went on as if she were actually interested and concerned, her brows drawing together in mocking sympathy. "I mean, they have therapy for people like me. Rehabilitation. What do they have for guys like you? Support Groups for Neutered Vampires?"

His eyes darkened and his mouth tightened as if he were about to launch another nasty jibe. Then the anger gave way to annoyance and he heaved a surly sigh. "The sodding 'Bicuspid Café'. Sorry lot of them sitting around in a circle crying and hugging and planning bake sales." He made a disgusted face. "Bugger that."

She stared at him, surprised that he had actually answered, surprised by the answer itself, and then she burst into laughter, one hand holding back the pain of her bruised ribs. "Get out! Baking? No wonder you follow me around."

He glanced at her, suspicion edged with guilt, and wondered if she had any idea how much he'd been following her. He guessed she must, judging from the knowledge of events in her life he'd demonstrated. "Yeah," he said dryly, clearing his throat. "Listen, fun as all this is, it's not why I came."

"Sorry. I'm off-duty." And with that she turned and resumed her easy pace down the alley. She didn't get three feet before a vampire launched itself at her, snarling. Instinctively, she dropped back into a fighting stance and pistoned her leg up and outward. Spike watched in amusement as the vamp went flying and her tiny skirt ended up somewhere around her waist.

The vamp lumbered to its feet with a grin, singing tauntingly as it lunged for her again. "I see London, I see France, I see the Slayer's—"

Faith set her jaw and back-kicked it in the head again, making a half spin inside its reach and staking it. "No respect," she said disparagingly as it vaporized. Then she looked at Spike, shaking her head and pulling her skirt back down over her hips. "How did Buffy ever fight in these things without…"

She trailed off at Spike's look.

"Why do you think I picked so many fights with her?"

She chuckled and shook her head. "You  _are_  a sicko."

Strangely, it felt like a moment of camaraderie.

"I saw your little run in with the Scoobies last night," he ventured, throwing out the bait.

She stopped yanking on her skirt and turned on him, taking it hook, line and sinker. The cocky smile had fled her face and storm clouds gathered on her brow. "Yeah? So?"

"They were pretty shaken up, seeing you. Thought they might go off and do something stupid. So I followed them." He crossed the few steps between them at leisure, looking at her intently.

"And?"

"I think they're up to something."

"Well, sound the alarms and rally the troops!" she said with a roll of her eyes, turning to go. "That sounds terrifying."

"Whatever it is, it's got to do with you." He stepped up to her. "And I can't stop them," he added with a tap to his head.

She gave a forced laugh and turned back with an expression so confused and disgusted that it seemed manufactured. "Why would you want to?" she asked, as if what he'd said made no sense to her at all.

He considered her in quiet reproach for a moment, appearing to think that over, then looked away, nodding as if to himself. "Right. Good point," he said, as if he had just been celestially enlightened.

He turned and strode down the alley away from her.

* * * * * * * * * * *

She tried not to think about what Spike had said as she made her way back toward what she was slowly beginning to think of as home, stopping at one of her stash places along the way to change her clothes. It had been Ms. H's suggestion that she take a few nights off, stick close to home, and give things some time to settle down. She couldn't resist a quick pass through the nearest of the graveyard's though, and made a sweep of them, finding them surprisingly, and disappointingly, undisturbed. As nice as it was to have a break, she had to admit it was already making her anxious. Too much damned time to think about things.

She had ignored Spike's attempts to draw her out, but she knew he was right. What had happened with Angel had left her with some fresh wounds, and she'd just as soon cover them under bandages and forget they existed. Trouble was, they weren't going quietly. A fight would be just the thing to help her get her mind off things and blow off some steam.

She hung around for a little while among the eerily carved angels and crosses, so used to them by now that she barely noticed them, keeping watch for anything out of the ordinary. Minutes dragged by, lengthening into half an hour, then an hour, and at last she abandoned the false alarms and sporadic hope, gave up, and went home.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The circle of power was etched into the soft, grass-covered earth with care. Giving it a last once over, Willow nodded once, satisfied, and stepped inside. Kneeling down, she settled into position and unwrapped the cloth she'd folded up into a sack earlier. "Okay, I brought a little knife for everyone," she said, setting out a tiny pocketknife before each of them; Anya in the east position, Xander in the north, Tara in the west, herself in the south. She gave the small group a surreptitious glance and caught them looking at her questioningly.

"Hey, it's just a shallow cut," she said defensively. "Just enough blood to put in the bowl for an offering." She shifted nervously, wishing they'd stop looking at her like that, and nodded toward the copper bowl at the center of their circle. "The spell won't work without it."

Xander nodded tensely, Tara and Anya looked down again, and with a quiet sigh of relief, Willow turned her attention to setting out the rest of the spell components. A pinch of salt went into the bowl, then a dried leaf of sage, followed by a small piece of wormwood, a bit of myrrh, a touch of powdered Gnosh demon bone—that was key—and a few other ingredients, finishing with one of Buffy's baby teeth. Finding  _that_  had been a real coup; hair never worked nearly as well as tooth or bone or blood.

"Now, each of you, imitate what I'm about to do until the bowl comes back to me," she said anxiously, looking to each of them for agreement and understanding. When they gave it, Willow set the bowl before her on the ground and then picked up the knife, drawing it over the palm of her hand. Putting the knife down, she squeezed her wounded hand into a fist, watching the blood trickle out between her fingers, letting it drip into the bowl and spatter over the contents within. After a moment, she opened her hand and waved it over the bowl. "Commisceo," she said gravely, all traces of anxiety and excitement gone now. Lifting the copper bowl, she passed it to the east, toward Anya.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Faith had just reached the front walk of the house when she heard footsteps hurrying up behind her. She turned, dropping back into a fighting stance, ready for anything. Or so she thought.

Slowly, she came to a standing position, like someone in a dream. She'd never seen that particular expression on Spike's face. In fact, she wasn't sure she'd seen an expression like that on anyone's face, ever. She couldn't identify it, couldn't put a name to it. She wished she could. Maybe if she could put a name to it, it wouldn't seem so frightening.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice filled with trepidation.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Each of them did as she had done, and when the bowl made its way back to Willow, she replaced it at the center of their circle. "Join hands."

They did, wounded palms joining them each to the other, linking their lives and blood, and Willow threw back her head, closing her eyes, beginning the incantation.

"Hades, God of Death and the Underworld, Keeper of Dead Souls, hear our cry. With the blood of our lives, we beseech thee, with the heart of our soul we implore thee, with the power of magic we invoke thee; return to us the one who was lost!"

* * * * * * * * * * *

As if from very far away, Faith heard the door of the house open behind her.

"Faith? What's going on?" Beatrice's voice was sharp, clipped with authority and barely contained alarm.

It didn't occur to her to answer. Her world was the angular, white shape of Spike's face; paler than the moon, paler than death itself, and etched with dark lines that no mortal would ever possess. Her world was the span of a few heartbeats, no more, spread over the course of eternity, waiting for Spike's answer.

He licked his lips, a human gesture that seemed somehow wrong on him, frail and mortal, and she imagined she could hear his tongue sliding over the softly ridged flesh, so great was the silence between them. "It's Buffy," he said, his eyes hooded, veiled as if to protect those around him. "They're bringing her back."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Willow felt a tingle begin at the base of her spine, snaking up through her body and then shooting out through her arms and hands, causing the others to gasp as it raced through their bodies, completing the circle, fusing them together like an electrical circuit, holding them in the thrall of the magic.

"We give the blood of our veins that she might be given life."

The tingling grew stronger in each of them, tiny, piercing needles against their nerves.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Speechless, Faith stood completely still. A cacophony of thoughts raced through her mind, so many that she could not pick out a single voice through the din. She blinked; her fingers twitched, and she remembered to breathe.

"Can—can they do that?" she asked, and the words were like ashes in her mouth, cold as the grave.

"They can. Though what state she'll come back in…"

His voice trailed off, and the words he left unspoken chilled her even more than the ones he had. She thought of her dreams; Buffy holding forth her bloody heart to Faith, begging her to take it; Buffy shedding her own beautiful face for that of a vampire and drinking deep from the well of Faith's soul; Buffy as a living corpse in the church beneath the ground. For an instant she was struck dumb by the remembered visions, frozen solid in fear by the implications. And then she seemed to snap awake, the import of what she knew finally clicking home, galvanizing her into action.

"We have to stop them."

* * * * * * * * * * *

"We give the essence of our soul that she might be given life"

Faintly, from somewhere far away, Willow heard Tara moan in pain. The wind, a gentle almost unnoticeable breeze moments before, gusted suddenly, lifting her hair and standing it almost on end, errant strands whip lashing over her face.

Caught in the rapture of the spell, she grinned like a madwoman, crookedly and without guile. This was power, this was life, the magic coursing through her, filling her, like electricity, like a lover. This was what she wanted to feel every day, every moment of her life.

* * * * * * * * * * *

They shared a look, and then Spike turned and took off, Faith following behind as fast as her legs could carry her.

Beatrice opened her mouth, started to say something, closed it again, shook her head. "I'll just… check my books…"

Neither of them heard her, their ears filled with the sound of rushing wind and pounding footsteps. She knew it, and it didn't matter. This was a very exciting turn of events, and there was much for her to do in a very short amount of time.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Hades, God of Death and the Underworld, Keeper of Dead Souls, hear our cry!" Willow yelled into the wind. It answered in kind, dull roaring rising into an angry howl, as if Hades himself had been summoned to the spot against his wishes and voiced his fury, as if he would not give what they asked if he could keep it from them, and perhaps that was the truth, Willow thought, feeling a thrill rush through her. But all the conditions had been met. He would have to answer.

"Return to us the one who was lost!"

* * * * * * * * * * *

Faith almost stopped running as they came down over the hill.

Below, in a clearing surrounded by trees, the Scoobies sat in circle, holding hands, and they were glowing. Outlined in a blue so brilliant it was almost white, the wind gusted and whipped, screaming fury all around them.

Somehow, above the roaring, she heard the command of a voice, infused with the power of one who knows her command will be answered.

"Return!"

Her dream flashed before her again, in the white room with Buffy's corpse, a voice thundering in her ears.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Return!" Willow shouted, completely lost in the moment now. Around her, she was aware of the others, their bodies and souls connected to hers. She could sense their distress, and she knew they wouldn't last much longer. It didn't matter.

"Return!" she shouted the final time, her voice ringing out with a triumphant note.

She felt the power rise and crest in a shrieking gale, felt the presence of the one she invoked as it tipped its hand to grant her request. And then she felt something slam into her hard, the magic flaring once with blinding light and exploding, tearing her hands from Tara and Anya's, breaking the circle of power and throwing her to the ground.

And then, there was nothing except blackness.


	18. INFERNO

CHAPTER 18: INFERNO

We found you hiding, we found you lying  
Choking on the dirt and sand  
Your former glories and all the stories  
Dragged and washed with eager hands

But oh your city lies in dust, my friend

Hot and burning, in your nostrils  
Pouring down your gaping mouth  
Your molten bodies, blanket of cinders  
Caught in the throes…

And your city lies in dust

~Cities In Dust, Siouxsie and the Banshees

-

The wind died instantly. It did not subside, it simply ceased to exist the moment the circle was broken. The Scoobies lay scattered like broken dolls across the etched ground, and for a moment, everything was completely silent, the lack of sound almost painful in the wake of the howling wind.

Willow stirred, blinked and pushed herself to her knees, body aching with impact and the aftermath of the spell.

"Did it work?" she asked, her voice cracked with strain but eager.

"I bloody well hope not," Spike answered.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Faith groaned and pushed herself up off the ground. She had barely risen to her knees when she felt a searing force impact with her body and slam her back down.

"What the hell did you do?" Willow was beyond furious; Faith didn't need to see the witch's face to know that.

"Here now, back off, witch," Spike interrupted, and Faith could sense that he was placing himself between them, felt the displacement of air as he moved nearer to her. "What the bloody hell did you think you were playing at?"

The other Scoobies were regaining their senses; Faith could sense their movements as they came to and began to rise. The world seemed to tighten and contract around her, making it difficult to breathe, and it took her a moment to recognize the unfamiliar feeling as anxiety. Her nerves felt stretched to the breaking point after the events of the last few days, and it was all she could do to keep from bursting into laughter at the sudden realization that Spike's presence here was actually comforting.

"Bringing Buffy back!" Willow replied vehemently. There was a tone to her voice that suggested Spike was pushing his luck by even asking. "And this—this—" she couldn't seem to come up with a term offensive enough to describe Faith. "She probablybroke the spell!"

It didn't sound as if Willow were going anywhere near sanity or stoicism anytime soon. Faith looked up then, wanting to see. If her end came here and now, she at least wanted to know how. Wanted to look the witch in the eye one last time.

"I'd say it's a lucky thing she did," Spike replied levelly. And he was calm, so calm. Faith wondered how he could be so calm. He tilted his head, looking at Willow with eyes of flint and fire, and a shiver ran down Faith's spine as she realized his calm sprang not from peace of mind, but from a rage so deep and terrible it could not be expressed in any other way without violence. "Did you really think you could pull this off? Wasn't that business with Joyce enough to teach you stupid gits that bringing someone back is never a good idea?"

The Scoobies were all looking at each other now, glancing around guiltily, their expressions easily betraying their worry. They hadn't gone into this blind, then. They'd had misgivings, but they'd done it anyway. Somehow, that made it all the worse… and yet she found herself commiserating with them, too. If it hadn't been for her dreams, would she…?

And then she understood everything.

It flooded through her like a river, washing her clean of confusion and doubt, leaving the plain of her mind empty and peaceful. The portal… Buffy's death, her call to return to life.

"They left this. Here. You take it."

It was as if all the tumblers on the lock of her mind had clicked into place and opened all at once, almost audible as the pieces inside her head fell together, the complete picture revealed at last.

The world side slipped and…

…she struck the center of the portal and she had a moment when she wished she had time to tell them not to be sad for her, that her mind was at peace now and she could finally rest, nestled safely in the arms of oblivion. That whatever sweet reward the afterlife could offer, it could not compare to this. She was one with her actions, one with her destiny, and in giving herself over to it completely, she found a freedom and peace she had never known existed. She opened her eyes and…

…raised her face to them, eyes imploring them to believe, to understand, already knowing what the outcome would be but needing to try anyway. Her voice locked in her dry throat, and she swallowed against the knot there.

"Listen to me." And for a wonder, they all did, heads swiveling to look at her with anger, contempt, and even mild curiosity. "I dreamed this…" she trailed off, lost in her thoughts, vaguely aware that now that she had their attention she was doing more to convince them that she was a lunatic than ever. "I…" How could she explain? "She… Buffy…" The simplest truth of all. "She's happy." She could sense them bristling against her words, hear them taking a collective deep breath to contradict her, and she hurried on. "She died doing what she thought was the right thing. She was ready to die. She wants to rest in peace."

"You don't know that!" Willow spat, moving around Spike. "How could you know that?"

"Will…" Xander's voice now, quiet, also imploring.

"What?" she snapped back at him, her accusing eyes falling on him with righteous anger.

But they would never know what, exactly, because that was when Faith saw the vampires coming down the hill toward them.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"There's too many of them," Faith said, her words clearly directed at Spike.

He gave her a sidelong look, glanced up the hill and then looked back at her. "Time to go", Spike said, pulling Anya to her feet.

Xander rose, helping Tara up, and there was a moment of hesitation as Willow glanced around helplessly.

"No," she pleaded, her voice bereft of anger now, filled with a wistful longing, with broken hope.

Faith jumped to her feet, steadying herself, and then drew her stake. "This party's over." She grabbed Willow's arm with her free hand, her eyes meeting the witch's for a brief instant. Willow shook her off and Faith the still saw anger there, and hatred, but it was lost now, buried beneath the confusion of everything that was happening.

"But… Buffy…"

"It didn't work," Spike said sharply. "But if you want to stand here and start the feeding frenzy, go right ahead." Willow gave him a small look of surprise and hurt. His expression didn't change, and they could all tell that he meant it; he'd had enough, and if Willow didn't run now, he wasn't going to help her.

They took off running into the night.

* * * * * * * * * * *

They fought their way through smaller groups of vampires as they fled, Faith and Spike leading the assault, Xander and Anya just behind them, Willow and Tara backing them all with what little magical power they could still muster, and at last they escaped into the sewers beneath the town.

Everyone was completely silent as they hurried through the tunnels, the only sounds of water dripping, heavy breathing and rustling clothing. When they reached a particular crossroad in the tunnels, as unremarkable and indistinguishable as the rest of the tunnels they had passed through, Spike paused at last, glancing upward as if to make sure of where he was.

"The Magic Box is right down the street from here."

Glances all around, the shuffling of feet, and the almost audible sound of weights shifting in the minds of the Scoobies.

Willow cut Faith a black look as the others began to ascend the ladder to the streets above.

"You. Both of you," she said, including Spike in her gaze. "Do you realize what you did tonight?"

Spike looked at Faith, she looked at him, and as one they looked back at Willow with a light shrug and a nod, consciences so clear it was almost an arrogant gesture.

Infuriated, she stepped toward them. "You, I get," she hurled the words at Faith. "Wouldn't want Buffy back to step all over your glory as the one and only Slayer—"

"I told you—"

"—but you," Willow went on, spinning on Spike. "I don't get. I thought you loved Buffy."

"I do," he said quietly.

Faith shot him a startled glance, eyes widening as a few more pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

"Then why?" she asked, plaintively, almost desperately.

"Were you prepared to face Buffy coming back as some mindless shambling thing?" he asked menacingly. "Did you even think about that? Were you prepared to take responsibility for sending her back to whatever heaven or hell you pulled her out of? Could you," he asked, stepping so close to Willow that she had to fight the urge to back away from him, "have put a knife in her heart to set her free again? Or cut off her head?"

"But it wouldn't have—"

"Or, let's say you did bring her back all right. What if she didn't want to be here?"

Willow seemed struck speechless by the very thought.

"Did you think at all, witch? Or did you just decide that you knew best? Got your little group of Scoobies to roll over and do whatever you said?"

Willow threw up her hands almost defensively and spun away from them. "I try to do the best thing for everyone and—You know what? I don't even know why I'm bothering. You're both… evil anyway!"

"Evil people who saved your ungrateful little lives tonight," Faith added, her eyes narrowing to slits as she challenged the witch.

"Oh, and that balances out all the scales, right?" Willow met her gaze with equal ire, and Faith thought Willow might actually be gauging whether or not she could take her after all the energy she'd expended tonight.

Tara, who had been hovering nervously at the bottom of the ladder, waiting, moved from her place at last. "Come on, Willow," she said, tugging at the witch's shirt.

Reluctantly, Willow allowed herself to be drawn away, stepping back. "This isn't the end."

"Count on it," Faith shot back, sneering.

With a last angry look, Willow turned and climbed the ladder.

When the manhole cover slid back into place, Faith shook her head and swallowed against the bitter taste in her mouth.

"Well. That's done," Spike said, giving her a questioning glance, almost as if he weren't sure.

"Yeah." She scuffed her boot toe along the grimy surface of the concrete floor. When she didn't move, Spike tilted his head at her curiously and she raised her eyes to meet him. There was something about this that seemed all wrong… something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"How did they know?"

"The vamps?" he asked, dark brows rising. He snorted a laugh. "You cast a spell that powerful, you might as well take out a billboard ad with a big neon arrow. 'Witless, stupid humans, here'."

She nodded then, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and looked down at her dirt-encrusted boot.

"Second thoughts?" Spike asked, as if the idea had just occurred to him.

"No. I know I was right… what I said." She shook her head, unruly hair falling back into her face. "I just… I wish she were here, you know?" She asked the question almost defensively, as if daring him to counter it.

He looked at her a moment, and then lowered his head, nodding.

"I know."

* * * * * * * * * * *

She exited the tunnels near where Spike said her house was, climbing the rungs to the surface in blessed solitude. She hadn't realized what a toll the evening had taken on her. The night of dancing and college boys seemed very far away, and she found herself thinking only of how good it would feel to fall into bed and rest her weary, bruised bones.

Angel almost dying and then the… sex… and then gone, the Scoobies aware and hating her, Buffy's almost resurrection, Spike's annoying yet imminently helpful and thus more annoying stalker-like tendencies, vampires, the new big bad, the as yet un-deciphered scroll, the Council's watchful eye and potentially harmful tendencies… the worries and problems piled up as she named each of them.

No wonder Buffy was happy to get out, she thought cynically, shoving the manhole cover aside.

She rose cautiously into the cool, California night air, stake at the ready.

It was then that she smelled the smoke.

* * * * * * * * * * *

She didn't stop to think. She didn't have to. Chalk it up to the Slayer instinct for trouble, the intuition for the nature of danger. And even if you discounted all of that, there was still the law of averages to consider, and she was experienced enough with averages to know that they rarely came down in her favor. She didn't question it. She simply knew where the smoke was coming from.

For more times than she could count in the last few days, she'd run as if her life or someone else's depended on it. Each time, she'd been certain of the worst. Each time, she'd escaped somehow, mostly unscathed. And now she was running again, bone weary and infinitely tired of running.

She had a feeling that this time, she wasn't going to be so lucky.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Flames licked the support beams of the house, dancing and devouring eagerly over the wooden surfaces. The fire was in all its power and glory, the superiority of nature over the illusion of human mastery. Dark forms stood out in stark contrast to the brilliance of the light, blacker than velvet against the yellow-white glow. Even from where she was, still several houses away, she could tell that they were vampires. Their handiwork done, they were fleeing the scene.

They were coming right at her, all menacing fanged grins and raised fists, but she only had one thought.

Oh God, Ms. H.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Afterward, she could never quite remember the sequence of events, or even all of them.

She knew she had twisted and danced through the vampires, slaying any that came within reach of her stake. She remembered the tall, handsome one, who had broken several of her ribs with one incredible punch, remembered that she hadn't been able to stop him as she fell to the ground, all the breath driven from her lungs, fire in her chest and in her brain. She remembered stumbling to her feet, staking another on her way into the flames, the startling clarity of his shocked expression before he burst into ashes.

Like an animal, she raged against the flames, the primitive functions of her brain kicking in during the lapse of rational thought. She would have fought it, this primeval force, would have killed it if she could have, but all she could do was cough against the acrid smoke that filled her burning lungs, flinch from the flames that came too close to her body.

Against all instinct for survival, she made her way into the fiery wreckage of the house, the smoke coiling in wicked tendrils around her mind, hazing her vision and graying out her thoughts. A burning timber collapsed and she ducked beneath it, bright orange embers shooting out in a showering spray, and for a moment, beyond the overwhelming scent of burning wood, she could smell her own hair burning. She smacked at her head in annoyance, killing the tiny, deadly flames that sprang up in her tresses.

Time ceased to have meaning within the confines of the burning building, and she stumbled through the smoking ruins, heedless and uncomprehending, hardly remembering why she was there or what she was looking for. Still, despite everything, she managed to cling to her objective with a tenacity that would have impressed her Watcher, had she seen it.

Unfortunately, her Watcher would never see anything again.

She found Beatrice at the edge of the fire, near the bay window of the sitting room. Her body lay at an awkward angle, limbs splayed in a pathetic display of human frailty. Her fingers clutched at the loamy earth she had joked about turning into a garden, long furrows drawn out behind them.

0  
Her head was gone.

Faith sank to her knees among the flames, stunned, no longer aware of anything else around her. The faces of Watchers past paraded before her in a mocking procession, and rational thought still escaping her, she knew only that she had failed. Knew it on the deepest and most intimate of levels.

There wasn't even any blood. She remembered that clearly afterward, and often wished she hadn't. The vampires had drained her and then taken her head as a trophy.

Defeated, her body gave out. She fell on her side, coughing weakly against the smoke that filled her lungs, and there was a thick, liquid sound to her coughing now, a sound that spoke of punctured ribs and impending death. She barely registered it. She felt her thoughts drifting away, carried on the smoke that rose from the bright flames all around her. This is it, then, some distant part of her mind thought, and she found now that the end was here, she welcomed it. The oblivion of death was preferable to the reality she faced now. So much easier to sink beneath the black waves that beckoned. Treading water was so hard…

She didn't know how long she lay there, senseless and on the verge of suffocation. Bright flowers of color bloomed behind her eyes, exploding in a vibrant fire that rivaled the blaze around her, purple, green, red, white. She struggled a moment toward the end, body instinctively gasping for air, mouth open wide, striving desperately to pull oxygen from the air. And then, for a moment, or for an eternity it seemed, there was only blackness.

* * * * * * * * * * *

It could have been seconds or even hours later when she felt strong arms grab her and lift her, dragging her away from the heat of the flames, away from the harsh smoke and bright light.

"Come on, luv. Wake up."

The ground was cool beneath her, and she found that she could breathe again. Choking, she gave a rasping cough, spitting out stringy, bloody ropes of phlegm. Her stomach contracted in tight waves of pain in response, and she rolled on her side, vomiting up what little liquid still remained in her stomach. Retching violently, she curled up in tight ball of misery, dry heaves racking her body in rapid succession, sharp, impossible pain flaring to life in her head.

"You… should… have let me… die…" she croaked weakly.

"Well, there's gratitude for you," he said dryly, and she managed a guttural, choking laugh between retching.

Angel would have said she had to earn her rest like everyone else. Angel… Oh God, she wished he were here.

Reality returned for a brutal, rational moment. "Ms. H…"

"Yeah. I know."

"I… couldn't… save her…"

He didn't respond, picking her up in his arms instead. The lifting motion made her feel sick again, and she dry-heaved with a groan of disgust.

"Why… you helping… me?" she managed to get out, fighting against the waves of darkness that threatened to descend upon her.

"What else have I got to do?" he asked whimsically, and he might as well have been talking to the air for all she heard; unconsciousness had claimed her again.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

He gathered her closer in his arms, shaking his head in disgust at himself. Might as bloody well turn in his black hat for a suit of shining armor. What was he going to do, anyway?

But he already knew the answer to that, didn't he? Only one thing to do, only one place to go. Her Watcher was dead, Angel was gone, and she'd be needing help. Great as he was on the battle back up, he wasn't much good for the kind of support she was going to need after this.

Bitterly, he thought on the events of the night. The damned Scoobies trying to resurrect Buffy against all common sense, Faith saving them from that horrible mistake and then being rewarded by their enmity and the death of her Watcher. He might not be crazy about the girl but she damned sure deserved better than that.

Distantly, he could hear the sound of sirens, the Sunnydale police and fire department, always a day late and a dollar short. "Come on then," he said tersely, turning and walking away from the deadly blaze.

"Let's go see ourselves the only Watcher left in town."


	19. EPILOGUE: STILL REMAINS

EPILOGUE  
CHAPTER 19: STILL REMAINS

_

 

Detective Lieutenant John Devine stepped into the County Coroner's office with a presence of authority and an air of impatience.

"Murphy," he greeted the pathologist with a curt nod. "What do you have for me?"

"In a hurry, John?" the tall, frail-looking man asked with a knowing smile.

"Always."

Murphy nodded and didn't press; wasn't any of his business anyway. The only time he needed to care was when they brought him new bodies, and even then it wasn't strictly necessary. After 30 odd years of service he was pretty indifferent to most of what he saw. Most.

He pushed up his glasses, rubbed the bony bridge of his nose and squinted. "You remember that Jane Doe the boys fished out of the dumpster two nights ago?"

John nodded. That one had been worse than usual. Everyone knew there was no shortage of mysterious deaths in this town; bodies drained of blood, mauled as if by wild animals, even disappearing bodies, and that included natives as well as a more than average share of Jane and John Doe's. At first glance, one might think it was something in the water of this town, maybe in the air, perhaps even some crossed earth-energy lines, if you went for that new-age stuff, but after a while of looking at it, you realized that Sunnydale had almost  _no instances of crime at all,_  except for violent and homicidal. There were few cities of comparable size in the country that had the kind of death rate that Sunnydale did, and in the ones that did, every other type of crime imaginable also ranked fairly high on the percentage scale.

He watched as Murphy turned toward the examining table and drew back the sheet, revealing a Jane Doe who was slightly less horrific than the last time John had seen her. He shook his head with a grim smile, remembering how three years ago, the knowledge of the Sunnydale death rate had staggered him, left him stupefied. Now it took a serial-type killing like this one to get his attention and snag his memory.

"So what's the story?" he asked, pulling out his notebook.

"Well," Murphy said, settling into his work with practiced ease. "The decapitation you were already aware of, of course." He gestured to the woman's neck, where her head had been reattached facing the correct direction, held by tiny stitches John could hardly see. "But cause of death points to our usual M.O.; victims body was emptied of blood, which seems to have escaped from twin punctures to the left jugular, prior to decapitation."

John felt relief rush through him as Murphy spoke—as much relief as one could have after a death like this, anyway. He'd been worried they had a serial killer on their hands. Not that the alternative was much more comforting, but at least it was familiar territory.

"Mouth was sutured shut before the head was sewn back to the body, which means the victim was already dead. Good thing, too, considering that whoever did this used quarter inch wire to do it. The wire went through the gum line on both top and bottom, meaning they had to put their hand inside the head to complete the stitches." He gave John a meaningful look, then continued. "I believe that's also when they pulled out all of her teeth and removed her vital organs."

"Dear God," he whispered, his earlier relief forgotten.

"Yeah. And that's not even the worst of it. I found skin under her nails—"

"You mean we have a suspect?" That was exciting, and far more than he'd expected.

"It's her own skin John, and it was torn off post-mortem."

John stared at him, stunned.

"So, what do you think?" he asked wryly. "Did she wake up dead and try to claw out the stitches in her neck and mouth? Because those are the only places she's missing skin, and the tears in her skin and in her gums were caused by post-mortem stress on the stitches."

"You don't really think—"

"I don't know, John," Murphy said, drawing the sheet back up over the dead woman. "I don't know what I think. I've seen a lot of strange things, working here; bodies that disappear, bodies that turn to dust, people I swear I cut open a few weeks ago walking around just fine and dandy in Sunnydale downtown. You see enough of that, do enough autopsies on bodies drained of blood through twin punctures in the jugular or carotid, you start to wonder. You start to have trouble sleeping at night." He ran a hand over his jaw and looked down at the sheeted body.

"Could be the sick bastard that killed her used her own hands to claw her stitches after she was dead. Could be he pulled on her jaw and stretched the stitches, too. That's what I'll be putting in my official report…"

John nodded in agreement.

"…but that's not what I'll be seeing in my dreams tonight."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Faith drifted on the edge of consciousness, unaware of her surroundings or her situation. All around her there was nothing but peace; blessed utter darkness; total emptiness. On some completely incoherent level, she appreciated it, even welcomed it. If this was death, then—

At the edge of her awareness, something fluttered.

No… not fluttered. It  _crawled_. Slinking and slouching and just beyond the reach of her vision and comprehension, something lurked, something preyed. It waited. It toyed.

White light filled the eyes inside her mind, the glare forcing her to close them. Beyond the thin cover of her eyelids, the light continued to grow until she thought it would blind her anyway…and then, without warning, it relented, receding.

She opened her eyes to the plains of the desert, hot sand whispering around her bare feet, burning beneath the skin soles in a way that was not altogether unpleasant. Shielding her eyes against the brightness with one hand, she squinted into the distance over what seemed like miles; miles of flat, empty, open space with nothing in between—

Oh, but there was  _something_.

It prowled, sinister and relentless in its tracking of her, and for a moment, she was filled with such terror for her unseen adversary that she nearly broke and ran.

Instead, she opened her mouth and the words, "I know you," came out in a whispering voice she barely recognized. As soon as she said it, she knew it was true; she  _did_  know. And on the heels of that revelation swiftly came the equally true realization that she didn't know this thing at all.

The black skinned woman emerged from the dry brush, crouching, moving on hands and feet like a wild animal. Skin like coal, her face painted with a white skull, dreadlocks and rags that would have made an L.A. bum run screaming, she paced in a slow, insistent circle around Faith, dark lips drawn back from large, yellowing teeth.

"No." The word was uttered from depths of darkness somewhere in the well of the creature's soul, and Faith heard more with her mind than her ears. "You are like me. You are alone."

"I am legion," Faith contradicted without knowing why. "A dichotomy." The words seemed to come from somewhere outside of her, though she spoke them.

The dark woman shook her matted head and lurched forward a step. "You do not know what you are," she countered without moving her lips. "Where you come from."

"She'll try to kill you, you know," came a soft, feminine voice from very close by.

Faith turned her head and saw Buffy, sitting on a large rock that hadn't been there a moment before, knees pulled up to her chest and arms wrapped around them, her face solemn and somehow girlish as she looked at Faith.

"Why?"

"Osmosis. It's what we do," Buffy said and shrugged.

"We?"

"Slayers," Buffy answered seriously, setting her cheek on her knees and tilting her head at Faith. "She was the first."

Faith turned her eyes back to the black woman. "The First Slayer."

The First Slayer ran a dark purple tongue over her teeth and growled.

"You're running out of time," Buffy interjected quietly, and Faith looked back at the petite blond. She stood atop the rock now, her hair free, legs and feet as bare as Faith's, clothed in a short white dress. "You need to figure it out."

"Figure out what?"

"Your gift," Buffy replied, frowning, as if Faith should have known the answer. "Death was my gift." She eyed Faith curiously. "I wonder what yours will be."

Faith held out her hand, palm up, and looked down. "This," she said proudly.

"You can't use that," Buffy said, frowning. "It's not yours to give."

Faith closed her palm and then opened it, and the air above her hand began to ripple like a heat wave, threads of light seeming drawn to the nexus above the loom of her fingers, twining together in a ball of mirrored silver and molten gold, forming a small, perfect core.

The First Slayer snarled and Buffy stepped menacingly toward her. "I said you can't. do. that."

"It's done," she said, and even as they watched, the small core flashed once and assumed its final shape—an acorn grown deep brown and full. "Perfect," she said triumphantly reaching out to touch it as it stilled, hovering in the air above her hand. "I knew I could—"

The acorn burst like a soap bubble as her fingertips touched it, its rotten insides exploding in a spray of black that hissed and boiled and burned like a living thing.

Faith recoiled and Buffy shook her head bitterly. There were black smears all over her face, dripping like blood around her hazel eyes. "There. You see? You destroy everything you touch."

"The outside is easy," came the guttural voice of the First Slayer, and again her mouth did not move. "The inside is much harder to change."

"Perfect on the outside, but rotten to the core. Just like you, Faith," Buffy said with a hostile tilt of her head.

"You cannot create life. That is not your gift," the First Slayer said, circling Faith slowly in the sand. Her face swayed and twisted in the strange silence that followed her words.

"Time's up," Buffy said, almost cordially, and the First Slayer seemed to smile in anticipation. "So what's it going to be?"

Faith opened her mouth—

And gasped in pain as fire coursed through her guts, sending sparking pain like lightning through her ribs. The world swam, muddied and multi-colored and just beyond her grasp, blurred through the cover of her lashes and shielded by her eyelids. Buffy and the First Slayer slipped away like grains of sand through her fingers, like the desert itself, and as they spun away into the well of her subconscious, she could hear their voices echoing off the odd curves of the corridors of her mind.

As she brushed the plane of consciousness, one word rang in her head and caught there, twisting meaningfully as she broke the surface of her mind and gasped for air; one second of skewed awareness—

"Daeonira?" She would have sounded as confused as she felt if she could have done more than mumble.

Then she slipped back beneath the waves of confusion, letting the darkness of sweet oblivion claim her again.


End file.
